


The Cab

by WriterX



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Case Fic, Crossdressing, Deductions, Depression, Detectives, Developing Relationship, Dirty Talk, Happy Ending, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Memories, Mild Voyeurism, Minor Character Death, One Night Stands, Past Relationship(s), Rimming, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, Slash, Smoking, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:09:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 104,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterX/pseuds/WriterX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock isn't a slut per say. He's just a bloke in need of sex, and, out of fear of getting attached - switches partners fairly regularly. When the consulting detective investigates the murder of a Mary Morstan, he'll have to confront the face of John Watson - a one night stand from six years ago. With this ghost from the past, Sherlock is forced to deal with the skeletons in his closet while he attempts to unravel one of the largest criminal webs he's ever stumbled across.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Symphony Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter of this story is inspired by songs by 'The Cab' - except the first and last chapters, which are named after album titles. For each chapter, I'll post a link to the song on youtube, for your simple listening pleasure.

**Six Years Ago**

 

_Happy Birthday John._

John sighed heavily, flicked his wrist in soft circular motions, and forced the liquid remaining in his half empty beer to swirl around its containment. His eyes were fixed sullenly on a small bowl of nuts on the counter beside him, though he wasn’t really looking at the nuts; too deep in his thoughts. The friends that had come to this bar with him had all managed to vanish – probably passed out drunk or off feeling up some girl somewhere. Left John alone at the bar. On his birthday. The night before he got shipped out to Afghanistan.

His mind was only slightly buzzed. He really ought to switch to water after this beer – it just wouldn’t do to show up hung-over on his first day. John frowned, warily eyeing his drink. His life just really sucked right then. Both of his parents were dead, his older sister refused to go a single AA meeting, he had no relationship and he was purposefully going to put himself in front of a bullet as of tomorrow.

“Two glasses of water over here Lenny.” John glanced to his left at the new voice, and watched as a young man with wild red curls and dazzling green eyes slid into the seat beside the blonde army-doctor-to-be. The man tilted his head at John, a smile stretched across his face. “You look like you need some company.”

The army doctor groaned and ran a hand through his hair. “Is it that obvious?” Beside him, the man just laughed; the deep and rich noise caused John’s lips to turn upward into their own smile. Red curls bounced as the man shook his head. “Naw, I’m just good at observing.”

“But did you notice that he’s sitting alone on his birthday, the day before he officially joins the army? Frankly Dominick, I’m rather disappointed you didn’t even notice he’s been sleeping on the couch of someone who owns three dogs. Most likely a sister. Maybe you ought to lighten up on the alcohol.”

John turned sharply to face the source of the new voice: a dark haired man who stood, no, _towered_ , over John, his hip adjacent to the counter. Well, not really a man, more like a boy – the bloke couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen years old. No longer jailbait, but it sharply reminded John of his own newly acquired age of twenty-three.

The stranger lifted a slender eyebrow at him, and drew John’s attention to curious blue eyes that appeared to gaze straight through the blonde and into his heart; as if he could read all the secrets blazoned upon John’s soul. The notion sent a shiver down John’s back. Now, while the stranger’s eyes were breathtaking, John’s eyes flickered over the rest of the man – wild black curls that contrasted with pale white skin, cheekbones so sharp that John bet he could cut his hand upon then, alluring cupid heart lips that were just begging to be kissed, and all wrapped up in a dark coat and a frayed blue scarf.

Behind John, the redhead – apparently named Dominick – chuckled, and the blonde turned to catch a fond grin on thin lips. “Sherlock, tune it down a bit, you’ll scare him off.” The bartender reappeared with two glasses of water, and Dominick slid one over to John.

As John’s fingers brushed against the cool condensation on the outside of the glass, the man on his right, Sherlock, snorted. “I’ve told you, I can’t just turn it on and off. I’m not a faucet.” He gracefully glided into the stool beside John’s, folded his slender fingers together on the counter. John watched as the young man waved off the bartender when he’s asked for a drink – wondering exactly how old the man is to be let into the bar. Currently, his alcohol-addled brain can’t recall if the entrance age was eighteen or twenty one for the bar.

“I’m sorry, we’re being awfully rude.” John’s head turned back to the redhead, and he noticed for the first time the faint splatter of freckles over the man’s cheeks and nose. “I’m Dominick, and that arse over there is Sherlock.” The darker haired man grunted at the introduction, but John had his attention focused on the striking smile spreading across Dominick’s face. “I work with the police, and he’s a detective.”

“ _Consulting_ detective.” Sherlock corrected, but his eyes sparkled when he looked over at Dominick. John shuffled uneasily in his seat, and glanced at both of them anxiously from the new information. “Am I in some kind of trouble?”

Dominick’s head tilted back and his mouth unlatched as he erupted into a roar of laughter. John shifted his gaze to Sherlock, who watched the scene unfold with an almost amused smirk hinting at his lips. The soon-to-be army doctor gripped his water a bit tighter, brought the glass to his lips and took a sip.

“No, no, you’re not in any trouble.” John blinked in surprised when Dominick wiggled his eyebrows at the blonde. “Unless, you know, you want to be.” The redhead chuckled again, and John heard Sherlock snort. He turned in his seat to see the dark haired man shake his head. “Honestly Dominick, you suck at this.”

And suddenly Sherlock’s lips were at his ear, the detective’s breath hot on his skin. “We’re going to seduce you, John Watson.” John’s breath caught as a wet tongue brushed against his earlobe, and thin fingers slid up his thigh.

“How – how do you know my name?” John gasped out, his fingers curling tightly around his glass as he scrambled to remember if he had revealed it to either man beside him. Sherlock’s teeth scraped against his earlobe, and John had to bite his tongue to keep quiet; the rest of the club seemed to melt away. “Your ID is showing out of your back pocket.” The detective’s words were deep and rough in John’s ear.

“How – aahh!” John paused, his tongue darted out of his mouth to lick his lower lip as he felt his heart skip a beat in his chest when Sherlock’s fingers pressed down on his crotch. He quickly glanced about the bar, looked around to see if anyone was watching the obscene act taking place by the bar. “Hey,” Sherlock’s voice was soothing in his ear, and his tongue grazed John’s skin. “No one is watching. And if they were… so what?”

Sherlock’s fingers pressed a little harder, outlined the shape of John’s half hard cock. John’s fingers tightened around his glass at the movement as he tried, and failed, to control his body’s reaction to the seductive motions of the detective. “What does it matter what other people think?” The words were soft and flirtatious in his ear, and John felt a chill shoot down his back. “No one cares. And even if they did… they’d just be jealous.” Teeth grazed against his earlobe, a feeling that shot straight to John’s groin. “Jealous that I get to feel up this gorgeous soldier of a man. Jealous that I get to touch him, and kiss him, and take him home tonight.”

Lips paused, and fingers brushed against the waistband of the army soldier’s trousers. “Would you like to come home with me tonight John?” Hot breath was on his ear, and John swallowed hard. He shouldn’t go. He didn’t know these people, didn’t know if they were safe, of if they were clean, or what they had planned…

But there was hot breath at his ear, fingers traced his thigh and a hardness in his trousers. It was his birthday, and he was alone, about to be shipped out for target practice. Why not spend his last night in London with the attention of two very handsome men focused solely on him?

“Yes.” John whispered breathlessly, finally answering Sherlock’s question. Lips stretched out in a smile against his skin, and the detective leaned back in his seat, retracted fingers from John to give the man a moment to breathe again. Sherlock smirked at John, and his swirling eyes slid down the blonde’s body quite openly. The look caused a chill of lust to wash down John’s spine, goosebumps raised on his skin like he’d been hit by a gust of frigid wind.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered up. “Dominick.” John’s eyes flipped over to the redhead, who snapped out of some sort of fantasy zone to land himself back in reality. “I’m awake.” Dominick said instantly, even as he blinked in an owlish fashion that had John thinking that the man might pass out any moment. Beside him, the dark haired man snorted. “Come on you two. Let’s get out of here.”

There was an arm wrapped around his shoulders then, and he was gently pulled the blonde from his seat. John glanced at his shoulder as he was guided out of the bar along with Dominick. Sherlock’s fingers were long, thin and nimble; and John couldn't help but imagine those long digits sliding inside of him, reaching and stretching him out, curling around his –

"You’re gorgeous.” A voice whispered in his ear, rough lips pressed kisses against his hairline. John shivered at Dominick’s voice, and his head snapped up when Sherlock’s arm vanished from around him. The lanky young man stepped up to the street, and his fingers were in his mouth – tongue, wet, circling, making John’s head spin – elicited a piercing whistle.

“Taxi!” Sherlock called out as he raised a hand and drew one of the London cabs to the side for the three of them. He opened the door and gestured for Dominick and John to enter first. Dominick’s fingers curled around John’s, his digits warm and tangled with his own, and the redhead pulled John into the cab.

John slid into the backseat, and was instantly pulled against Dominick’s mouth, tasting whiskey and mint as a tongue slipped past his lips and against his own tongue. The older male gasped in surprise, and his tongue rolled against Dominick’s in a natural response. He heard a door slam shut, and he felt the cab start forward, but he was too preoccupied with lips and tongue and fingers that roamed over his freshly cut short hair.

And then there was another mouth, hot and wet, pressed against his neck. Tongue licked his skin, leaving a wet trail of saliva. John groaned into the mouth kissing him, as lips drew skin behind his ear close, sucked eagerly as he let obscene, wet, slurping noises slip into the heavy air.

_Fuck._ John broke apart from Dominick’s lips, both men gasping for breath. He looked up into green eyes, watched as a grin spread across the redhead’s rough and slightly swollen lips. Sherlock’s lips pulled off John’s neck, and the doctor watched in surprise as thin, deft fingers grabbed Dominick’s square jaw and yanked him forward to clash their lips together.

Their faces were right in front of John’s, lips eagerly folded against each other, and _fuck_ if that wasn’t the hottest thing he’d ever seen. Even in the throes of the passionate kissing – when Dominick’s large hands had intertwined with dark curls – Sherlock’s nimble fingers were brushing against John’s leg, keeping the blonde involved.

They finally broke apart for air, and John was a bit surprised at how turned on he was – just by watching the two men snog. Dominick leaned back against the seat, letting his eyes slip shut as his fingers started to trace gently up and down John’s thigh. And then there were thin fingers that tilted John’s head up, and the blonde was looking up into a swirling mass of blue and green eyes. “Your turn.” Sherlock whispered, his voice husky and his lips swollen in a similar fashion to Dominick’s (from being kissed so hard), as the detective folded his lips over John’s.

Kissing Sherlock was completely different from kissing Dominick. Normally, John didn’t kiss two different people within such a short time frame, so he didn’t notice huge differences, but this time he did. Where Dominick’s kissing was eager, fast, and hot, Sherlock’s kissing was seductive, slow, and left John aching. Dominick’s mouth had been intoxicating with liquor and passion, but Sherlock’s mouth was tantalizing with temptation and a hint of smoke.

Sherlock parted John’s lips with his tongue, and he slid into John’s mouth, circled their tongues together, the movement hot and sweet. Thin fingers drifted from his jaw to trace down his neck, and chill fingertips left goosebumps in their wake. The same fingers glided up under John’s shirt to familiarize themselves with the panes of John’s torso, lightly brushing over his nipples.

And then cold fingers were gone, and the pressure against his lips was gone. John blinked in surprise, his body adjusting to the abrupt lack of contact as he came to the realization that the cab had stopped. The door to his right was opened, and Sherlock was already out of the door when he turned to look. John’s eyes flickered up and down the lanky beanpole. If it weren’t for the bulge in John’s pants, he never would have been able to tell that the dark haired bloke had his tongue down John’s throat, not ten seconds previous.

“Dominick!” Sherlock’s turn about snap startled the man beside John. Dominick’s eyes snapped back open and he sat upright, sucked in a hard breath. “I’m awake!” He exclaimed, insistent on the fact, even though he blinked rapidly and looked about in confusion. There was a heavy sigh from outside, and John slipped out of the vehicle as Sherlock paid the cabbie for the drive.

The redhead smiled sheepishly at Sherlock, who only tutted and looked at the other man in disappointment. “Exactly how many drinks did you manage to sneak without my notice?” Dominick pushed himself out of the cab, a teasing smile on his face. He licked his lower lip, dug his hands into his pocket, fingers moved around as if he were searching for something. “Nothing escapes your notice.”

But he looked up at Sherlock and blushed, before he hunched his shoulders and his eyes darted towards the ground. “About four…. maybe five?”

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, rolled his eyes but kept silent. The cab had driven off by then, and Dominick finally managed to fish a silver key from his pocket. John glanced up and down the quiet street – a street filled with neat little houses, all in an immaculate row.

“Alright, inside we go!” Dominick cried once he had finally won his wrestle with the doorknob, and the plank of wood relented to letting the three men walk past its gates. John's attention was drawn away from the street and towards the house as the two other men led John inside.

“Anyone want a drink?” The redhead offered, a pleased smile stretched across his flustered lips as he closed the door behind him, his cheeks a bit red from his alcohol intake. Sherlock's lips pressed together in a grimace. “Don't you think you've had a bit too much to drink already?” Dominick waved a hand at the younger man, as if his statement were of no importance. Then he turned about and vanished further into the house without saying another word.

John ran a hand through his hair, and Sherlock shot him an apologetic look. “Sorry about him. He means well, but his mind gets a bit addled when he drinks too much. He's a sweetheart though.” The blonde nodded his head in understanding as butterflies fluttered all about his stomach. Now that the snogging session in the car had come to an end, and they were really inside a house, John felt extremely nervous. What was planned? Would he be able to perform? Did Sherlock and Dominick have a thing together? If so... would being the third wheel for them be a good or bad thing?

“Hey,” Sherlock strode over to John, his deep voice soft and kind as he took the blonde's face in between his fingers. “Don't worry. We'll take good care of you. Promise.”

And then his lips were on John's again, and the soft touch made John's knees weak. Sherlock's tongue slipped past John's lips, and he tasted smoke as they slide together – which should put him off (because his dad used to smoke and it was horrible) but for some reason the taste was awfully tantalizing. John felt those long fingers brush against his sides (and god, imagine those fingers slowly stripping his clothes off, cool touch on his skin as blue eyes stare into his own, taking his time as he removed every offensive article of clothing), and then Sherlock gently removed John's jacket from his shoulders. It was dropped somewhere, or hung up somewhere, or something, but John couldn't bring himself to care too much where it was.

John's hands moved to wrap around Sherlock's neck, and pressed himself up against the detective. With Sherlock's fingers firmly on his waist, held him in place, John felt a bit more secure in himself, and he kissed the dark haired man a bit harder, teeth scraped against his lower lip. He heard Sherlock's breath hitch, and he took the reaction as a personal victory, before he plugged forward and leaned closer to the man, desperate to taste every inch of his mouth.

“Wow, leave for one minute to get a drink and you guys are already undressing each other. I feel so left out.”

Sherlock's lips left John's in a lazily trail, drawing out the army doctor's lower lip with his teeth, his eyes bright and focused on John's as he did so, before he released the man and turned to face Dominick. “You know, if you wanted to be kissed, all you have to do was ask.”

Dominick snorted, raised a glass of water (at least, it looks like water) to his lips and took a sip. “I think we'd better move this to the bedroom before some neighbor happens to look in the windows.” Sherlock snorted and shook his head, but his fingers thread through John's fingers – cool to the touch and thin and narrow compared to John's shorter and thicker fingers, but still felt good.

“Remember what happened last time we did it in the living room?” Dominick threw the question at Sherlock as the detective tugged John away from the living room and down a hallway, left him in silence as he observed the interaction between other two men. They were obviously very friendly, but then, John had never been very good at observing things between people. It was how three of his past girlfriends had successfully managed to cheat on him with his _sister_ , for months before John ever found out about it.

The detective chuckled, a smirk on his lips. He glanced back at John, oblivious to the thoughts of the doctor. “We got the police called on us.” He winked, and god, if that wasn't one of the most dazzling movements the man has done all night. Dominick chuckled, sipped at his water where he walked in front of Sherlock and John, before he stepped up to a closed white door. The redhead pushed the door open, revealing a bedroom to John as he was led inside.

He barely had a moment to let his eyes wander about the room – blue walls, tile floor, bed with dark red sheets, and walls full of pictures everywhere; floor completely clean but dressers with drawers overflowing with messy clothes; bedside dresser with more picture frames seated on top, one of which John recognized as Dominick and Sherlock with cake squished into their faces – before someone grabbed him and pushed him up against a wall. There were lips on his, firm and insistent and tasting of smoke.

John grunted at the force of being pushed against the wall, but then Sherlock's hands raked hungrily down his sides, and John shivered with desire. Long, cool fingers removed John's shirt from his trousers before they slid up his shirt and against the skin of his stomach. The blonde’s tongue lapped impatiently at Sherlock's lower lip, and the man responded by opening his mouth, to let their tongues melt together again, doctor's hands wound into dark curls and forced him closer. Sherlock's hands scratched down John's sides before they left his skin to brush down John's legs, maneuvered the older man so that their hips were directly horizontal – and it only took one shift of the hips from Sherlock to make John whimper with desire.

And then Sherlock was gone, lips removed like they had only been a figment of John's imagination. He blinked to see blue eyes replaced by green, soft and sweet, fingers lead John to bed. John let himself be pulled over to the bed, and the back of his knees hit the mattress, but Dominick gently pushed him down, laying the doctor out on the wide sea of red. There was pressure on his hips, and Dominick was straddling him, fingers gently caressed John's sides before he leaned down to press their lips together. His lips were eager, and John returned the motion just as passionately, arched into the man, their matching excitement rubbing against each other.

Dominick made a muted noise of resistance, and then the pressure of his body was removed from John, but his lips never moved from John's. Their tongues slid together in a sweet and seductive dance – much different from the spicy tango they'd been dancing back in the cab. And John gasped into the redhead's mouth when he felt a nose brushing against the waistband of his trousers, hot breath on the skin shown from where his shirt had been raised. Teeth scraped against his skin, and John shuddered, licking at Dominick's lips – thoroughly pleased when he received a taste of mint as a response. He felt teeth grab at the zipper of his trousers, and he almost wished he could see Sherlock take his trousers off with his teeth – but the feeling of the action was just as good.

There was a slight breeze when his trousers were whisked off of him, but John didn't have long to think about that, because then there was a mouth at his crotch; one that placed hot, open-mouth kisses against the fabric of his pants and elicited a moan from John. Something of which Dominick took full advantage of in order to swirl his tongue around John's mouth, to taste the army doctor. Warm fingers were at John's shirt, and he knew they were Dominick's as the man undid the buttons of John's shirt, slowly stripped the blonde of his clothing – and it was thrown to a place unknown to John once it had been shed from his shoulders.

He's died and gone to heaven. Honestly. He's already been shipped out to the war, and he got shot through the fucking skull or something – because there was no way that he, John Watson, should be so lucky as to have these two very eager men all to himself right now.

There were teeth scraped against his skin again, and then his pants were being pulled down off his arse, past his thighs, down his legs, and then off his body – so that John is completely naked for the two men. Dominick's lips left John's mouth, moving to press kisses along John's jawline. “You're so gorgeous John.” The redhead whispered into John's ear even as he felt a separate pair of lips that kissed up John's side – completely ignoring his very hard cock right between his legs.

“When I saw you at the bar,” Dominick murmured into John's ear, his tongue licked at his earlobe. “I just had to have you. Your body is too lovely not to be appreciated tonight and every night.” His lips pressed against a spot just behind John's earlobe, and John visibly writhed at the touch, a whimper sneaked past his lips because, _fuck_ , that spot. Dominick licked at the spot behind John's ear, and caused the doctor's breathing to grow more ragged with every touch of the tongue, almost forgetting Sherlock's lips, which were tracing up his stomach.

“How would you like this evening to end?” Dominick asked quietly, teeth nibbled on John's earlobe. “Sherlock's a very submissive guy, I'm sure he'd let you fuck him.” John shivered at the words, as Sherlock decided to simultaneously lap at John's nipples when the redhead spoke his words, and filled John’s mind with ideas to spread apart those long legs and slid between them, to see Sherlock’s head thrown back in ecstasy as the doctor pounded inside of the detective and tested to see what kind of noises that mouth could make –  

“I, on the hand, wouldn't mind fucking _you_.” Lips traced down John's jawline again, interrupted the blonde’s imaginings, and his eyes fluttered open to see green eyes dark above his, clouded with lust – a look that was probably reflected in his own blue orbs.

Dominick nibbled on his lower lip, gazed into John's face as Sherlock's tongue moved to lap at John's neck. “Would you like me to fuck you John?”

John took in a deep breath, and nodded his head eagerly. “Yes,” He nodded his head again after he spoke – yes he wanted to get fucked. Dominick smiled and leant down, pressed a soft kiss onto John's lips before he propped himself up, pushing himself up off of John. "I'll be right back, okay? Have fun with Sherly until I get back." And then redhead was gone.

Instantly smoky lips were back on his, and long legs straddled his stomach, a hardness pressed against John's stomach as a lithe form bent over to kiss him. John's tongue lapped at Sherlock's lips, and received similar attention before the detective pulled back, lust-covered eyes looked down into John's.

“So... Dominick is going to fuck you, eh?” Sherlock inclined towards the blonde, biting John's lower lip and pulled it back while he gazed into his eyes. “I don't normally ask for things John.... not in the bedroom anyway... but would you be willing to suck me off while Dominick fucks you?” And Sherlock's fingers, cool and long, were curling into John's hair, and there was no way that he could refuse.

“Yes.” John answered, nodded his head as Sherlock's fingers gently scratched against his skull, pulled his head up for a soft kiss. Those lips were cool against his own, and John flicked his tongue out, trying to gain passage to that smoky mouth. Lips parted and tongues brushed together, causing shivers to trace down his body. But Sherlock was wearing far too many articles of clothing for John's taste right now. And Sherlock was a sub, right? That’s what Dominick had said anyway. Well then...

John pushed his way up, using his hands to flip their positions, so that Sherlock was underneath him. He heard a bit of a gasp from the man, and the blonde smirked to himself. His fingers wrapped around Sherlock's wrists, moved his hands so they were above his head, before John leaned down to let his lips trace down the sides of the detective's neck. _Mhm_. His skin was warm, and John could practically feet his heartbeat in the veins of his neck as he kissed his way down the detective’s skin.

With a firm push, John silently ordered Sherlock to keep his hands above his head, before his fingers slid down Sherlock's body and gently started undoing the buttons on his shirt. He straddled Sherlock's waist, rocked their hips together as his fingers set about their work. When he had unbuttoned the shirt and spread it open to reveal Sherlock's chest, John leaned his mouth down further, pressed greedy kisses against the pale skin, traced down past his neck and lavished his collarbones before he traced further south, to let his tongue lap at the man's nipples the way Sherlock had done to him earlier.

All the while John got to hear breathy moans in his ears, the baritone voice like liquid sex as John continued his journey down Sherlock's body. He pushed the fabric of Sherlock's shirt from his body, took the clothing and threw it off to the side somewhere. Where didn't matter, not when John's lips could trace down Sherlock's stomach, lick at cool skin that rapidly became warm beneath his touch. John pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock's belly button before continuing down, kissed the hair just above the waistline of his trousers.

Offensive material trousers were right then. John's hands slid down Sherlock's body, touched cool skin before he quickly unbuttoned the trousers and pulled them from his body, tossed them off with the discarded shirt. His fingers took a moment to slide down Sherlock's legs, felt the subtle muscle and brushed over hair before his fingers were back up at Sherlock's pants, pulled them down and off his body.

And there. Sherlock was completely naked before him. John eyes traced up and down the lithe form, committed every single hair and pore to memory – because this moment was beautiful and perfect, and John would tuck this memory away into his mind for when the nights seemed too long and when he thought he might not live to see the morning. But he'll have this memory. He leant down, pressed a pure, chaste kiss to Sherlock's lips.

“You are beautiful.” He whispered softly to the man, not caring if that was a 'feminine' thing to say. Right now that's what this was. Beautiful.

Once again John slid down Sherlock's body, pressed his lips into the creases between Sherlock's legs. He could feel the detective's body squirming beneath him, desperate to be touched. Sherlock's cock was thin and long, probably not much more than an inch and a half larger than the width of John's hands, (in which his own cock fits perfectly) and it's incredibly hard, precum leaking from the slit on the head. And John was hungering for that.

He leant down, his tongue snaked out of his mouth to lick at the bead of precum, and got to hear Sherlock's delicious moan as a reward. John's hand came to grasp the base of Sherlock's cock, stroked slowly like he did with himself, before he ducked his head and gave the darker haired man's cock little licks. Just on the head. One little lick on the side, maybe another on the other side, one long lick over his slit, his tongue lingered as he tasted. It's a salty taste, but not entirely unpleasant.

John wrapped his lips around Sherlock's head, felt Sherlock's hips buck at the contact and watched as his back arched, a moan of John's name fell from his lips, all in one fell swoop. Now, that's a delicious sight. He experimented as he sucked Sherlock slightly, his hands moved to grasp Sherlock's arse, and ignored his own ragingly hard cock as he pleased the man in front of him.

John heard chuckling behind him. “Oh, I see you're enjoying Sherlock.” There were warm fingers wandering across John's hips, and he knew that Dominick had returned. But the redhead didn’t demand John's attention, and he didn’t want to remove himself from Sherlock right then, so he kept his lips around Sherlock's head, gently sucked and caused the detective to write underneath him.

He felt hot breath by his ear, and then there was a tongue lapping at his earlobe. “I'm going to get you ready John. Keep doing what you're doing – I’ll take good care of you.” And then those lips kissed the weak spot behind John's ear and he shuddered, let out a moan around Sherlock's cock, which caused the darker haired male to let out a whimper.

There was a chuckle by his ear, warm and happy, and John knew that he was in good hands. Literally. Warm fingers brushed against his arse and down his legs, molded John's body into a position where he was on his knees and his elbows, his hands too busy being occupied with Sherlock's arse.

There's a squirt from a bottle, and John forced himself to keep his body relaxed – even though this was hardly the first time he's ever bottomed for someone. First time being in a three way though. He tried not to think too hard about it and just let himself enjoy what was going on. Besides, he had Sherlock's cock in his mouth, and the darker haired male made the most delightful sounds when John licked right _there_.

Cool, wet fingers pressed against John's hole, circled him and gave the blonde a moment to recognize that Dominick's fingers were there. He gasped around Sherlock's cock, tongue lapped at his head in order to keep his mouth occupied. Carefully, and slowly, ever so slowly, one finger wiggled itself inside of John's arse.

He let out a deep breath, gave Sherlock a sharp suck and let the detective's moans fill the room. Before John realized it, there was a second finger slipped into his arse, and a warm hand rested on his hip, kept him grounded amidst the surreal feeling. It's odd, having something in there, but it's not very painful. John gave up his anal virginity years ago, but it still took a moment for him to get used to the feeling. But then Dominick's fingers pressed further, scissored around inside of him, curled around his prostate and encouraged a healthy moan to slip past John's lips. Sherlock was panting underneath the doctor, and John breathily moaned around his cock, leaned closer and took him deeper, his tongue licked around his shaft.

There's a blissful moment when all John knew was Sherlock's dick in his mouth, warm and yielding beneath his lips and tongue, and Dominick's fingers in his arse and on his hips, wet as he stroked, caused jolts of pleasure to shoot down his spine. John's hands gripped the detective's arse tightly when the redhead's fingers withdrew from inside the blonde, and all ears present heard the sound of crinkled plastic.

John could only assume that Dominick had covered himself when he felt a pair of hands on either side of his hips, the head of a cock pressed against his wet entrance. There's the distinctive feel of plastic, and John felt a wave of relief knowing that Dominick was using protection – and then that cock slid inside of him, and John moaned loudly, gave up Sherlock's cock for a moment in order to catch his breath and adjust to Dominick's dick inside of him.

He hadn't had the chance to look at the redhead's dick, but it felt large. John felt himself being stretched out, and he took in deep breaths through his mouth as he adjusted to the feeling. Sherlock's chest heaved in front of him as the darker haired man attempted to catch his breath, and he felt Dominick's warm fingers stroke up and down John's back in comfort. The feeling was very relaxing, and John once again thought about how lucky he was that these two gorgeous and caring men decided to let him into their sex life tonight. In that moment, he didn’t even care that he might never see either of them again – he was never going to forget this night.

John nodded his head, and backed his hips against Dominick's, to let the man know that he's okay, and that he's ready for movement, for the delightful friction that everyone in the bed craved. His lips dipped back down around Sherlock's cock, and the man let out a desperate moan at the wet contact, hips bucking for more. John's hands curled under Sherlock's arse as he felt Dominick slowly slid inside of him, rocked their hips back and forth.

He licked Sherlock's head, and could tell by his breathing that he was getting close. But he wanted to do more, wanted to do something extra to push the detective over the edge and watch him fall apart. His fingers fumbled around for the lube on the bed, and Dominick pushed it into his hands as their hips slapped together. John gasped out, gripped the lube and quickly squeezed a healthy amount onto his fingers. He spread it around evenly, before he dropped his fingers to Sherlock's arsehole, using his dry hand to take Sherlock's legs and wrap them over his shoulders.

With Sherlock's thighs on either side of John's face, he wrapped his lips around the head of Sherlock's dick, sucked eagerly as he pushed one wet finger inside of Sherlock's arsehole. Before him, the breathy moans and gasps for air was like music to his ears, and the calls of his name falling from those smoky lips were just a bonus. His whole body rocked up and down from the movement of Dominick behind him, who had taken to scratch his fingernails down John's back – something that made the army doctor moan against Sherlock's cock. John's finger plunged deeper inside of Sherlock, added a second when Sherlock's moan reached a higher pitch, that deep groan transformed into a raspy breath, hips rocked into John's fingers.

His tongue licked at the slit of Sherlock's cock as his free hand wrapped around the base, gently pulled and tugged, eager for Sherlock to tip over the edge as his two fingers slid in and out of the detective, searched for his prostate –

There was a loud and throaty groan, and John smirked in success as his rubbed his fingers against Sherlock's prostate, sucked on his head and encouraged the man to release. It took one, two, three more strokes against his prostate before the detective came, and John's name fell from smoky lips in a loud shout and his cock stiffened in John's mouth. Cum hit the back of John's throat, and he didn't even have to taste as he swallowed Sherlock down, licked him a few more times for good measure – oh, _fuck_ Dominick slid into him hard – before he popped his mouth off of Sherlock. He panted for breath as he rocked back and forth, licked his lips and looked into Sherlock's eyes – eyes that were shining dark blue right then, the expression on his face a bit dazed and his eyes a bit out of focus as he looked up at John with that thoroughly fucked look.

John slipped his fingers out of Sherlock, kept his forearms rested on the red sheets as Dominick fucked him, and John finally had the capability to pay attention to the nails that scratched down his back, a moan left his lips in the process. John's eyes flickered up to Sherlock, who blinked a few times before he bit his lower lip, flipped around on the bed so that he could connect his lips to John's, the kiss soft and sweet and thankful, and John could practically hear Sherlock saying 'Thank you, that was fucking incredible' with the movement of his supple lips. And then those lips were gone, and Sherlock was underneath him, and there's a mouth wrapped around John's cock – which had been ignored for so long that the feeling of it finally being touched almost caused him to cum right there.

Thankfully he didn’t (god, that would have been embarrassing), and he got to enjoy Sherlock's supple mouth around his cock, bobbed and sucked and licked at his skin until John was trembling from the combined forces of that mouth and Dominick's cock continued to pound inside of him. John gasped for breath as he's rocked, moans leaked from his lips, and drew the three of them into an ecstasy laced fantasy of heat and lust.

There's a hitch in Dominick's breathing, and then suddenly the redhead pushed into John as far as he could go, simultaneously pushing hard against John's prostate – causing John to moan, bite down on his hand to try and muffle the noises. A sentiment that Dominick didn't share as he screamed out, his whole body shuddered against John's as the man came hard.

He pulled out of John, and the army doctor suddenly felt a bit empty at the loss of contact. But then Sherlock's mouth had left his cock, and there was a tongue licking a path up to John's arsehole. His legs quaked at the feeling – and he barely had time to think about the sensation, and oh god, how embarrassing that Sherlock's mouth was right where he –

And then Sherlock’s tongue dug into John's arsehole, licked around the edges and squirmed its way inside. Cool fingers grasped John's cock, tugged gently, his thumb circled the head, and John moaned out loudly. The pressure built in his abdomen, his entire body shivered with heat and sweat as the pressure turned out to be too much, and he fell over the edge, came with Sherlock's name falling from his lips.

Gently, the tongue withdrew from his hole, and John felt himself gently being pushed onto his back. Good thing too – otherwise he might have fallen over from how hard his limbs shook. John closed his eyes for a moment, let his body sink into the mattress, relaxed as his heart rate fell down to an acceptable rate, and the warmth of his orgasm swum around him.

John only opened his eyes when the sheet beneath his sweaty body was being tugged away, and he saw Sherlock trying to take off the top sheet where John had spilled all over. His face flushed slightly, and he moved his body to make it easier for the man. “Sorry about that.” He murmured once the sheet had been discarded into a laundry basket of some kind.

Sherlock simply turned to look at him, smiling brightly. “No, don't be sorry. That was great.” The lanky man climbed onto the bed, pulled John close and pressed their lips together in a soft and tender kiss. “You were incredible.” He whispered, pressed their foreheads together, a smile on his lips as blue eyes gazed into each other.

“I'll have to agree with Sherly there.” Dominick's voice came back to them, and John glanced over to see the redhead stride to the bed with a wet cloth in his hands. “You were,” He climbed onto the bed, moved over to John and gently spread his legs so that he could press the warm cloth to John's arse – something that's an incredible relief for the pounding he just took, and surprisingly soothing. “Fucking amazing.” Dominick finished, leaned down to press a warm kiss to John's lips.

“And you,” Dominick chuckled, taking the cloth and flipped it around to the other side before he pressed it against Sherlock's arse. “You were magnificent as always.” The redhead bent over even as the detective smirked, and their lips pressed against each other, soft and yielded between the two, eyes closed with faces relaxed and happy. John smiled softly at the sight – god, he's so glad that he was able to join the two of them tonight.

Sherlock took the cloth from Dominick and got up to put it back in the bathroom (and probably to wash the cloth for a moment). John seized the moment in order to close his eyes and just enjoy the pleasant hum in his body. It couldn't have been more than a minute that he had his eyes shut, but when he opened them to look over at Dominick, the redhead was already curled up with a pillow, eyes shut and his mouth open as a soft snore left his lips.

“That happens when he's drunk.” John looked over at Sherlock's words, the dark haired man leaned up against the frame of the doorway, completely naked and unashamed in that fact. “He just passes out the moment he’s left alone. Usually right after sex.”

Sherlock smiled at the blonde, walked over to John and held out a hand. “I don't know about you, but I'm not quite ready to go to sleep yet. There's a second bedroom here, and Dominick just bought a new mattress. Care to test out the springs with me?”

A smile stretched across John's face, and he slipped his fingers into those long and cool ones, and he knew that he was in safe hands for the rest of the night.


	2. High Hopes In Velvet Ropes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> High Hopes In Velvet Ropes with Lyrics: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_vxySGg4V9c

**Present Day**

           

_A checkered tablecloth spread across the grass, squished the proud green blades in the process. Sherlock scoffed, rolled his eyes. His redhead snorted at him, told him to stop looking like such a sourpuss. The detective rolled his eyes again, faked annoyance as he slipped his hands into his pockets and gazed out across the park, the golden sun filled sky a gorgeous backdrop for their supper. The lake glittered with droplets of sunlight, shone bright amidst the valleys of green grass and evergreen trees sprinkled like chocolate chips on a cookie._

_He felt a hand tug at his wrist, and Dominick pulled him down onto the checkered cloth, forced the detective to lie down and enjoy the evening. Sherlock wriggled, but he wasn’t actually trying to escape the police officer's grasp. He smiled as warm lips descended on his own, the ever present taste of mint in Dominick’s mouth graced his tongue as the men intertwined in a soft kiss. The darker haired male let his fingers ghost down Dominick's side, caused the redhead to seize and break off the kiss as he burst into a fit of giggles._

_Even for men at the age of twenty two and twenty four, they're downright kids as Sherlock flipped Dominick onto his back, stradded the man and forced his fingers all over the man's side, tickled and searched for the spots that made Dominick’s head fling back and a rush of laughter jump from his lips. He tickled the redhead until he was gasping for breath, tears streamed down his face as his hands uselessly tried to push off the other man. “Sherlock!”_

_The detective finally relented and released Dominick from his torture; swooped down to lavish a great many kisses upon that warm mouth as a reward. Softer giggles greeted his ears before fingers were curled into his hair, and locked them closer for a deeper, fuller kiss, totally alone in their bubble of a world._

Sherlock's eyes blink open. He's staring up at a light ceiling, walls painted a shade of pastel blue. His breathing is even, and if it weren't for the dream he might have only been resting his eyes. The detective glances over at the clock on the bedside table, ignoring the all the pictures of the redheaded girl and her parents, and ignoring the stuffed animals to read a time of 12: 05 am.

He sighs quietly, turning his eyes to gaze over at the redheaded girl beside him. Molly's fingers are curled around Sherlock's arm, and there’s a pleasant smile on her face, her features smooth and untroubled by nightmares. Her skin glows from the moonlight shining in through the windows, all soft and curvy as her skin disappears below the duvet. Sherlock's lips tweak in a small smile when he notices the dark marks on her neck – all in the shape of his lips.

Her lipstick is smeared on her lips, and her hair falls over her eyes, but the shade is too bright – and Sherlock feels his gut twist. He pushes himself up, quietly slipping from the bed of Molly Hooper and retrieving his clothes from where they laid strewn about the floor.

Sherlock slips back into his pants and his trousers, buttoning up his shirt as he lets his eyes wander around the room. He's been in Molly's bedroom seven times over the past two years, and it never seems to change much. The walls are still a childish blue, and there are too many pictures hung up on the walls that use pink, frilly borders. There's a stuffed animal collection on a shelf to his left, and the carpet is plush. There are posters on the walls of inspirational sayings, all written in Comic Sans. It's girly and delicate – like a young teenager girl had decorated the room many years ago and then never bothered to alter the decor when that girl grew into adulthood.

He doesn't go further than that with his observations. He's not here to psycho analyze his colleague. Not Molly. Not when he knows he’ll probably come back again. He might study her, and toy with her moods and emotions, but he wasn't about to delve into her brain and try to study her from the inside out. No, there were too many things wrong inside his own head for him to be trying to diagnose problems in someone else's head.

Sherlock carefully closes the bedroom door behind him, knowing that the next time he meets Molly in the morgue, she'll still be staring at him with those love struck eyes and asking him out for coffee, but none of that matters. He's satisfied, for now, and won't need to see her again for a while. Of course, it's extremely useful to use her feelings to his advantage when he wants access to delicate material in the morgue. The detective picks his coat up from the coat rack, and then slips out of the flat, content to leave that room with no goodbye.

The bitter midnight air greets him like an old friend once Sherlock steps outside of the apartment complex, his shoes making soft, tapping noises against the pavement. He's alone on the street, but the silence is a comfort to him as he strolls down the sidewalk, fingers slipping into his pockets.

He doesn't think about the dream that he had. Why would he? It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live. Sherlock heaves in a deep breath, his fingers searching around in his jacket pocket for the packet of cigarettes he knows is there. The detective snatches up one of the fags, bringing it out of his pocket along with the lighter that he scoops up at the last moment.

Sherlock flips the top of the lighter open, the small little flame bursting to life, hot and dancing in the air before his eyes. He lights up his cigarette, watching the tip catch on fire and spark as a result of the lighter. Carefully, he tucks his lighter into his pocket, fingers tracing over the initials on the bottom. Sentiment.

With a deep breath, Sherlock inhales the cigarette, enjoying the rush it gives his body. He puckers his lips, letting a cloud of smoke pass slip out of his mouth and hover in the night sky in front of his face. His lips quirk into a slight smile, and he flicks the edge of his fag, bringing it to his lips again for another long drag as he continues to walk down the sidewalk.

The night air is rather refreshing after the hot and sweaty evening he'd spent with Molly. They had both taken showers after the first go around – but showering _with_ Molly probably wasn't the most productive means of getting clean. Although, it was rather a blessing that she had a matt on the floor of the shower – made for an easier grip so they weren't all slipping around. Showers aren't exactly the best place for fucking, because with all the shampoo and soap, everything gets slippery really fast, but if there are handles and a shower matt, then it's not too bad.

Besides, could you honestly blame him? How could he resist when Molly was pressing up against him, her breasts like two hot circles against his back as her fingers traced down his sides to brush against his cock, which was already rising after having been sated twenty minutes previous? And he had consent. She wanted it. God, she wanted it. Sherlock's lips tweak into a smirk as he recalls her moans and the way that she screamed his name over the sound of the water pounding against the walls and against their wet skin.

He takes another drag of his cigarette. Molly could be fun. Sherlock definitely preferred men, but when he dabbled with women, Molly was one of his favourites. There was a soft spot in his heart for her – even if he tended to just use her for sex and information. The detective takes a moment to close his eyes and breathe in the night air, sinking into the memories of the evening like he was slipping into a warm Jacuzzi. Remembering taking Molly back to her apartment, falling on the bed and undressing her as his fingers slid down her silky skin and touched every inch that made her throw her head back and moan like he was the centre of her world, and the velvet he'd tied around her wrists –

_Oh baby, lights on, but your mom's not home. I'm sick of laying down alone. Hey. With this fever, fever, yeah. My one and own, I wanna get you alone. Give you fever, fever, yeah!_

Sherlock scowls at his ringtone, fishing his phone out of his pocket and switching his cigarette over to his non-dominant hand. Molly's name flashes across the screen and he sighs, flipping it open and holding the device to his ears. “Someone had better be dead.”

_“Well, hello to you too. Suppose I ought to be used to waking up and finding an empty bed, but really, no note?”_

“Notes are tedious and suggest emotional attachment.” Sherlock responds curtly, taking a long drag of his cigarette, as if to spite the woman. He blows out smoke, letting his feet take him further away from Molly's apartment.

_“Still wouldn't hurt for you to stay until I wake up.”_

Her voice sounds hurt, but Sherlock doesn't really care. “Molly, just because you decided to wear a deeper shade of lipstick to get me in bed doesn't mean I was going to stick around. You know I was born to bail. I do things much better on my own.”

She sighs over the line, and Sherlock can picture her saddened face over the other end. He grimaces, flicking the end of his cigarette. People calling his phone was bad enough, but now Molly is calling him and being disappointed in him, even though she knows that he prefers texts. Well, she can go right on ahead and be disappointed in him. Won't change anything. Won't change the fact that everyone has always been disappointed in him, and no matter his brilliance, if he so much as puts one toe out of line, he gets the third degree for it.

 _“Lestrade called me.”_ Molly continues, changing the subject – something for which Sherlock can be minutely grateful for. _“He said he couldn't get a hold of you.”_

The detective holds his phone away from his ear for a moment, fingers flicking the screens across so he can check his missed messages. Sure enough, he has three missed text messages from DI Greg Lestrade. He flips back to his call, holding the phone back to his ear. “What does he want?”

_“He's got a case for you. Woman in her early thirties was cut up in her home. He wants you to take a look, because he can't figure out any suspects. Her boyfriend is at the house, but he doesn't look like he could have committed the crime. Lestrade said he was an absolute mess. But he’s their only suspect right now.”_

Sherlock sighs heavily. Dealing with emotional spouses isn’t exactly his favourite thing to do. Especially in the middle of the night when all he wants to do is finish his cigarette and take a nice hot shower. But still, Lestrade can't think of any suspects other than this boyfriend. Not that that is anything new, but those cases always tend to be interesting. He could check it out – even if it was just to show Lestrade up. Maybe Anderson will be on forensics, and Sherlock can mock him. That would be entertaining.

Molly gives him the address, and it's not too far from where he is, so the detective decides to walk, savouring the next few minutes to finish up his cigarette. Honestly, it was a horrible habit and nearly impossible to sustain in London nowadays, but he's been smoking since he was eighteen years old, and it was a rather difficult thing to stop when it calmed his nerves so beautifully. Plus, a post-coital cigarette was fucking fantastic.

He rounds the corner of the street Molly directed him to just as his cigarette is starting to get too short for his fingers. Sherlock takes another puff, blowing smoke out as his eyes are greeted by the silent red and blue flashing lights that man the top of the police cars. At least the sirens aren't going – that would be painfully annoying and distracting. There's no police tape up, so the entire murder must have taken place inside the house. Nonetheless, the police ought to at least take a look at the surrounding areas for clues to where the murderer went.

“Who called the freak in?”

Sherlock's lips tweak, and he flicks the end of his cigarette at the woman with dark curly hair. “Lovely to see you too Sally.” Sally Donovan huffs, crossing her arms over her chest, and throws him a rather aggravated glance.

“Why are you here?”

“Oh because, unlike you, my expertise is greatly appreciated on cases.” He smirks at her, stepping too close into her personal space, and watches gleefully as her eyes dart away. “What? Not happy to see me?” Sherlock pouts at her, bringing his cigarette close to his lips and drawing in. “You seemed to offer me a different sentiment not a few months ago.”

“Piss off.” Sally mutters, pushing him back, even as she obviously flushes, glancing away. He smirks to himself, nodding his head to her before his eyes glance down her person. “You enjoy an evening at Anderson's last night?”

She sends him a death glare, and if looks could kill, Sherlock would have died under her withering gaze. He simply chuckles and walks away, holding his fag between his fingers. There was a good reason that Sally loathed Sherlock – and it wasn't because Sherlock was a smartarse. A few months ago, before Sally had joined Lestrade's squad, Sherlock had been sent to a division adjacent to Lestrade's in order to sort out a few details regarding a case he had been involved in. Sally had been the person he had to rendezvous with, and, well... they had a rendezvous at a hotel hours later. Sherlock had left with no goodbyes, so when she joined Lestrade's division and saw Sherlock again – well, her anger knew no bounds. She broke his nose.

Sherlock steps up the stairs to the house, ducking inside and glancing around at the other officers in the room. He spots Anderson instantly, and when the sickly looking man glances up at him, Sherlock winks. The movement instantly causes the man to narrow his eyes at the detective from across the room, and Sherlock just chuckles, smirking to himself as he drops his finished cigarette into a nearby trash can.

“Oh, Sherlock, you're here.” Lestrade's voice comes to him, and the DI walks over to him, his hands stuffed into his pockets. “Molly got a hold of you then.” Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes. Stating the obvious does seem to be a bit of a habit with the police.

“What've you got for me?” Sherlock asks, straightening his shoulders and delving right into business. Finally, something interesting that could actually capture and keep his attention for more than a few moments. At least, he hopes that it’s interesting, and not just the police being obtuse as always.

“Right.” Lestrade nods, turning around and leading Sherlock into the adjoining living room. Altogether, a rather respectable and normal room, with a calm colour scheme and run of the mill furniture – and then there's the dead body on the carpet. Dead and naked. And don't forget covered in blood. Got to love the gruesome murders.

Sherlock licks his lower lip, eyes flitting all around the body. Woman, obviously. Early thirties (and not just because Molly told him that earlier – Sherlock could tell from the lines in her face). The cause of death appeared to be obvious from a first glance – she’d be cut up. The woman's body was sliced open, from her stomach all the way up to her neck. He walks over to the body, crouching down beside her, eyes flickering all over the woman.

“Her name is Mary Morstan.” Lestrade says from the other side of the body, the DI crouching down beside him. “Thirty one years old. We've identified the initial cause of death as a stab with a knife to the stomach, here.” Gloved hands point to a section of the woman's stomach near her pelvis where the end of the cut is. “We've found traces of semen in her vagina and we swabbed her mouth to see if there’s foreign DNA there as well. We've already had them sent over to the lab to be tested, but you're free to go check up on that too. There was no vaginal tearing, so the boyfriend is a plausible suspect. He's in the other room. But between you and me, I don’t think he could have done it.”

Sherlock's eyes turn up into Lestrade's. “Why do you want me here then, if you already know everything?” There's something going on here. Perhaps the DI just isn’t confident in his own abilities unless Sherlock informs him that he’s correct. That would be amusing.

Obviously there's more to the body, and Sherlock could figure out specifics if he was given the opportunity to study her more closely. Lestrade rolls his eyes at the detective. “Oh, don't be such a smart arse. What can you tell about her?”

Sherlock tutts, shaking his head. His fingers slide up to the woman's head, fingers probing at her skull. Hm. That’s something to take note of. His fingers twist her arms about, eyes sliding up the white and red skin, the ideas forming about in his mind. Sherlock nods his head, standing up. “Can I see the bedroom?” Lestrade shoots him a skeptical glance, but pushes himself to his feet. “Alright, if you want. I don't see what you'd get from that, but then again...” He shrugs his shoulders; the rest goes without saying. Because he's Sherlock Holmes, and he sees things that other people don't.

“Well, lead on Detective Inspector.” Sherlock chuckles with a twist of his shoulders, rising to his feet. His eyes flicker over the woman's body one last time, before he starts to follow Lestrade. As he walks, his eyes make wide, sweeping arches over the hallway and the carpet, over the walls and the ceiling. They turn down a corridor, walking past an open archway that lead to separate room, when he hears his name called out: “Sherlock?”

Sherlock stiffens, his eyes widening as he stops in his tracks. He knows that voice. Oh, he knows that voice well. Lestrade stopped, turning around to shoot Sherlock an inquisitive gaze as the detective slowly turns on his heels and comes face to face with a pair of blue eyes and a head of sandy blonde hair that he hasn't seen in six years.

_“Alright, who are we going for tonight?” Sherlock asked as he sat down with their drinks at the round table with Dominick, leaned over to give the man a quick kiss on the cheek. The redhead picked up the beer that Sherlock brought, brought it to his lips and took a sip. Those green eyes tilted up at Sherlock. “You sure you don't want to pick tonight? I think I picked last time.”_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes, ran a hand through his hair. "You're already buzzed, aren't you?" He scoffed, shook his head, but Dominick just grinned brightly up at him, as though he were proud of the fact that they'd been there for less than an hour and he was already inhibited from all the drinks. "I am not! I am perfectly sober." Dominick took another swallow of his beer bottle, took the time to slip out tongue out of his mouth and lick all around the neck of the bottle when Sherlock looked. The simulated head only caused to make Sherlock roll his eyes, but a smile stretched across his face in amusement, and Dominick took the look as a small victory._

_After he suffered through Dominick's winks at him while simulated giving head, he finally managed to tear the beer bottle from him in order to get a straight answer. Those green eyes flickered around the room, sized up potential partners, looked for someone that could strike his fancy. It was a bit odd, this sex game that they had going on between the two of them – but hey, it worked and they had fun. And besides, they went out on dates too, so it's not like their relationship was purely kinky sex. Although, that's a good part of it. Sherlock chuckled to himself._

_“I like the look of that blonde.” Dominick pointed out the man that sat at the bar of the club, frowned into his drink like he wasn't happy to be there. Sherlock tilted his head, eyes flickered over the man from across the club. He's not exactly someone who would stand out in a crowd, but he had a cute, boyish look that Sherlock kind of liked. And he looked lonely too, that's a bonus. It would make it easier to convince the man to come home with them._

_“Alright, he's cute,” Sherlock chuckled softly, turned to look back at Dominick. “You can approach him first. Try to do a little deduction work, okay? I'll follow and correct you. Don't disappoint me.” The redhead snorted, rolled his eyes. “As if you could ever be disappointed with_ this _.” He pointed down at his own body, and Sherlock let out a loud laugh, before he took Dominick by the collar of his shirt and pulled him in for a hard kiss._

_When he released his friend-with-benefits/boyfriend, Sherlock smiled, shook his head fondly at the man. “Go on, idiot.” He muttered before he pushed the man out of his seat and towards the blonde. “Go nuts.” Dominick grinned crazily wide at Sherlock, before he turned and walked over to the bar. Even across the other side of the room, Sherlock heard his opening line of, "Two glasses of water over here Lenny." and he wanted to introduce the palm of his hand to his forehead. Oh, Dominick._

“John Watson.” Sherlock says, blinking back to the present, swallowing hard. “I thought you were off getting shot at?” The man licks his lower lip, and the detective is slammed by the memory of how that tongue had felt against his cock, sliding up and down his length and teasing his head – focus Sherlock.

The blonde takes in a deep breath, and Sherlock's eyes flicker all over the man, picking up details he'd been too shocked to register before. There's the cane, but he's standing perfectly fine. He's tan, but not above his wrists. His hair is still cut short in that military style. Hm. Interesting.

“Got shot.” John answers stiffly, his head tilting up to look at the detective. His eyes are red and puffy – obviously been crying. Well – seeing as though John must be “the boyfriend” of this Mary Morstan, that much is understandable.

“Oh god, you know him?” Lestrade groans – because he knows what that means. Only, he doesn't understand the true implications. It’s common knowledge amoung the force that Sherlock is very... adventurous when it comes to sex. And this is known because Sherlock has slept with about half the force over the past two years. Lestrade and Sally included. So, whenever Sherlock comes across some random witness to a crime, and they know him – more often than not it's because the detective slept with them.

But Lestrade doesn't realize that he knows John from before. From before _the event_. John blushes at the DI's words, and runs a nervous hand through his hair. “Um, yeah, we met up one night before I went off the Afghanistan.” His lips press together, and his eyebrows furrow together, a crease between his eyebrows forming – obviously trying to recall something. “How's that...um, that friend of yours? What was his name... Dominick, right?” John looks up at him, obvious curiosity in his gaze, and all Sherlock can do his swallow and stare silently.

“Oh.” Lestrade's voice from behind him is like a gunshot, even though there's plenty of noise from the rest of the officers around the house that should have covered up the man’s noise of realization. And in that one little sound, it's like every ounce of pity the DI is capable of is being hurdled right at Sherlock.

He bristles, standing up straight, his shoulders widened and his chin held high. “Bedroom.” Sherlock repeats to Lestrade, gesturing for the man to continue. But Sherlock keeps his eyes on the ceiling when he does so – he doesn't need to see that look of pity on his face. Doesn't need that in the slightest.

There's a pause where Lestrade doesn't move – like he's not sure if he ought to just ignore what happened or just move on. Thankfully, he goes with the correct option, and just ignores it, turning on his heels and showing Sherlock to the bedroom. The detective follows the man, and his curiosity is peaked when the blonde starts following the both of them.

Well, at least Sherlock knows one thing. That DNA Lestrade ordered is not going to show the DNA of John Watson. The boyfriend is not the killer in this case.

The three of them walk into the bedroom together, and Sherlock instantly strides forward, examining the sheets. “What is he doing?” He hears John's soft voice on the other end of the room as Sherlock picks up one of the pillows and takes a deep whiff of it.

“Not really sure. Probably comparing the smell of the pillow to the smell of... of your girlfriend.”

Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes. Wow, way to be delicate Lestrade. Someone give that man an award. His fingers slide down the mattress, searching, probing – and finding. His lips turn up in a successful smirk, and he pulls the velvet up from where it lay attached to the headboard of the bed. Quickly, he unwraps it, brings it to his lips and smells it. Yep. That's a familiar scent. Sweat and sex.

He turns his body to face Lestrade and John. “Do you recognize this?” John pursers his lips together, eyebrows knotted together as he attempts to pull an answer from the recess of his mind, and slowly shakes his head. “No, sorry, I don't think I've ever seen that before. Why? Is it important?” He runs another hand through his hair, and Sherlock shoots him a look of pity. Oh. You poor thing.

For a moment, Sherlock frowns at the thought. He doesn’t have pity for anyone or anything. So why does he feel so sorry for John Watson? It probably has to do with the fact that _he_ had liked John – but Sherlock isn’t going to think about that. Nope. Not now, not tomorrow, not _ever_ again. Sherlock shoves the issue out of his mind palace, dropping it in the trash and deleting the very notion.

The detective makes his way around the bed, plucking three more velvet ropes from where they lay – tied to the corners of the bed but hidden beneath the mattress. John seems to have a look of horror on his face with every bit of purple satin that Sherlock finds.

He places all the velvet ropes on the surface of the bed. “Lestrade, you might as well drop everything against John. He's not guilty. No, the man you're searching for was this woman's lover.”

Even without looking, Sherlock knows that John is bristling, puffing his shoulder out in anger, his lips dipping in a frown. He turns around to see that exact description brought to life by John's limbs. “I am her – ” His angry words are cut off in the middle as he realizes his verb tense. The blonde swallows hard, his fists clenching, and Sherlock notices a slight tremble in one of his hands. “I _was_ her lover.” He states adamantly, looking up at Sherlock with hard eyes.

The detective snorts. “Do I really need to lay everything out for the two of you?” The matching looks on their faces (well, not quite matching; John's has a bit more of an angry vibe, and Lestrade's takes on more of an exasperated quality) inform Sherlock that he, indeed, has to spell out everything. Typical.

“These are used for bindings. Bindings of a sexual nature.” Sherlock points to the velvet ropes. “If you looked carefully, on the woman's wrists and ankles you could see marks. Her ankles and her feet bound her to this bed – most likely by her lover. Since John does not recognize these ropes, we know that he is not her lover.” He pulls back the duvet of the bed, and smirks. Just as he thought. His fingers peel back the duvet for both of them, and he hears similar gasps of astonishment when the bloody white blanket is revealed from beneath the heavy, dark blue duvet.

“If you even bothered to _look_ at the victim, you would have realized that she had rug burns on her arms. There was also a bump on her head.” He glances at the DI, who is still staring at the sheets with a look on his face that read out clear for the whole world to see that he was thinking one thought: 'How in the hell did I miss that?' Sherlock rolls his eyes. And they call him the amateur. “You told me that there were traces of semen in her vagina – ” John bristles. “And no vaginal tearing. Therefore, we can conclude that this woman enjoyed a very pleasurable sexual experience, one of which she consented to. If it were rape, there were have been tearing in her vagina. Simple.”

He drops the duvet, still leaving the bloody sheets open for them to see. "So, she was murdered here after having sex." His hands move animatedly while he talks, just a habit that he had – one he doesn’t recall where he obtained it, but never bothered to break because it was boring to try and break it. “She was stabbed in the stomach here – mostly likely tool would be a pocket knife, something her attacker could have hidden on their person, but I'd have to examine the wound more closely to know for sure.” He takes in a deep breath, on a roll. “After being killed and sliced up here – ” Again, John stiffens, but Sherlock doesn't soften his words, because really, what is the point in that? He could see the whole scene before his own eyes.

“So she was killed here, and then dragged out to the living room, still completely naked. Most likely to shock you when you returned home.” He tilts his head at John, sparing him a sympathetic glance. Sherlock turns his gaze onto the detective inspector. “So, adding onto your attacker profile, you'll be looking for someone probably smaller than the average male, if he had to resort to dragging her down the halls. Now,”

He utters the single word and strides out of the room, drawing the other two men to follow him. “There was no forced entry on the front door, and I'm assuming everywhere else as well?” He glances at Lestrade and receives a confirming nod. “Then we know that she knew her killer. She willingly let him into her house.” The detective pauses in his steps in the middle of the hallway, turning and staring straight at John. “What time did you arrive home?”

The blonde seems a bit surprised that Sherlock is even speaking to him. He blinks for a moment, gathering himself before he gives an answer. “I - I, um, I arrived home about a half hour ago. I called the police as soon as I saw... ” He trails off and swallows hard, and Sherlock grimaces, nodding. His gaze slides over to Lestrade. “Have you estimated time of death?”

Lestrade nods his head, glancing between Sherlock and John. “Yeah, about an hour ago. But there are no tracks leading to or from the house. Neighbors haven't even seen any suspicious cars pull up to the house.” Sherlock lets out a huff of annoyance, rolling his eyes, knowing that if the lover was a frequent visitor to the household, that of _course_ the neighbors wouldn’t think it suspicious. But, he ought to point out a separate clue right now. Help with the profiling.

“As ever Lestrade, you and your team see, but you don't observe.” He turns on his heels, striding confidently to the end of the hallway. With a smirk on his lips, he bends down, and gestures to what would appear to be just a spot of dirt on the bottom of the wall – but upon closer examination, it's easily half of a footprint.

“Now, Detective Inspector. If you would look here, you would see that the footprint here, even while only half of a print, is much smaller than Mr. Watson's foot.” Sherlock nearly laughs out loud when John looks right down at his own feet – he’s not even wearing shoes. “John, are you a fan of converse shoes?”

The blonde shakes his head. “No. They're more of a kids shoe, aren't they?” He runs his fingers through his hair, limping over to the detective and crouching down with him, his eyes flickering over the mark that Sherlock had pointed out. “How can you tell that those prints are from converses?”

“Statistically the most likely possibility.” Sherlock says, and his fingers point to the zigzag pattern in the mark. “This configuration is very popular with the Converse brand of shoe. And when it comes down to cases, the most obvious answer is usually the correct one.”

John snorts, and Sherlock glances up at him to see a soft smile spreading across his face. “That's brilliant.” The detective blinks a few times, leaning back and fixing John with a steady gaze. “You think so?” John nods, his eyes flickering between Sherlock and the footprint. "Yeah, of course. Brilliant. I wouldn't have been able to figure that out."

Sherlock's lips tweak into a smile. “No, of course you wouldn't. You're an idiot.” He rises to his feet and spots John's eyes narrowing at him as the army doctor (well, suppose he's an ex army doctor now, since he's here and not off in Afghanistan or Iraq) also pushes himself up off the ground. “Oh, don't get offended.” Sherlock sighs, glancing around the room. “You're all idiots compared to me.”

“And what, you're a genius?” John asks, looking a bit doubtful at the detective. Sherlock simply tilts his head at him, a knowing smile on his face. “Oh.” John nods his head, pursing his lips together and blowing out a breath of air. “Well then.”

The darker haired man chuckles, lips twisting into a smile before he turns to Lestrade. “I'm going to need samples of the sperm that you acquired from the body.” The DI frowns, his hands on his hips. “Sherlock, I already sent that evidence of to be examined, why do you need to see it? Just go check up on it. Molly is already performing an examination for me.”

The detective sighs heavily. “Because while I trust Molly is a very well equipped woman when it comes to forensics, and I'll simply be able to get a result faster. I know that you have more than one sample, so,” He holds out his hand. “Hand it over.”

Lestrade seems about ready to throttle Sherlock. Of course, that's nothing new. The detective inspector sighs heavily, mumbles that he'll just be a moment, before he moves to talk to one of his men. “If it makes you feel better,” Sherlock calls at him over his shoulder. “Your wife quite enjoyed your pasta tonight.”

Sherlock chuckles when Lestrade blushes furiously before shoving the darker haired man the finger. He smirks, leaning up against the wall as he waits for his materials. After a moment, his eyes flicker over to John, whom is openly staring at him. “Yes?” He asks the blonde, raising an eyebrow as he awaits an answer.

“How did you know it was my birthday?”

That's not what Sherlock was expecting John to say. “What do you mean?” He asks, slipping his hands into his pockets and turning to fully face the blonde, requesting for further clarification.

“Six years ago. You said that I was sitting alone on my birthday the day before I got shipped out to the army. You knew that I'd been sleeping at my sister's house. You knew that she had three dogs. How did you know all that?” John doesn't even lean against his cane as he peers up at Sherlock with a curious gaze.

“The same way I know that you were deployed to either Afghanistan or Iraq, and were recently discharged from the army. You've got a limp, which is why you use a cane, but you don't lean on it when you're standing, which says that your limp is psychosomatic. Well, at least partly. So you were injured in battle, since the cause of the injury must have been traumatic. Thus the reason you were discharged from the army. Now, I know that it was either Afghanistan or Iraq, because you've got a tan. But not above your wrists, so you've been abroad but not sunbathing. As for how I knew you were joining the army in the first place,” He pauses, smirking slightly. “Your deployment card was sticking out of your back pocket.”

John blinks, and Sherlock can practically see the man scrambling to figure out just how it was possible that he could have been read so easily. “But... you knew I was there on my birthday.” He brings up the same question as before, and Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Same way I knew your name six years ago. Your ID was sticking out of your pocket. Really, I ought to suggest that you buy jeans with deeper pockets, someone could pick pocket you very easily.”

John licks his lower lip and swallows, still trying to gather his thoughts. “But... my sister. And her dogs. How could you have _possibly_ known about that?” The detective chuckles softly. “That one was a bit of a guess, but very well funded. Your jeans were covered in dog hair – enough for three mutts. Could have possibly been just one with a really bad shedding issue, but three is more likely. Now, sister, because you smelt of perfume – but not the scent of any perfume that was in the club. Could be a girlfriend, but then, you wouldn't have been at the bar alone.”

Sherlock tilts his head slightly, already knowing John's next question. “And I knew that you were sleeping on her couch because your back was slightly titled. No one sleeps well on a couch, and certainly for not long periods of time.”

He rolls his shoulders, tilting his head at John, his face completely neutral and calm as he awaits the surefire accusations of _'freak'_ or _'stalker'_. Those are just two of the nicer names that he's been called.

“That's brilliant.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes a bit at John, although as he feels oddly flattered by the man’s words. “You really think so?” John nods his head, fingers adjusting their grip on his cane. “Absolutely. It was... quite.... quite remarkable.” The detective feels his lips slipping up into a smile, and he glances away, shifting his balance between his feet.

“Here you go.” Lestrade says, walking back to the two of them with the DNA samples. Sherlock instantly pockets them, and gives the Detective a smile (a totally fake smile which he has manipulated into appearing grateful for such occasions). “Thank you Lestrade. I'll just run over to Bart's, test these, and come straight back.” He starts to walk away. “Oh!” He turns around, facing the silver haired man. “You might want to do a search of the surroundings areas again. Just in case you missed something.”

Sherlock strides away, and then pauses just as he's passing the area where the body is. Mary Morstan. He tilts his head at the body, his mind racing. Suddenly, he spins on his heels, and his eyes connect with John's. He jerks his chin. “You coming?”

“Oh, um, yeah.” John nods, limping forward to join the detective. Lestrade shoots him a dangerous glance. “Oi! You're going to Bart's?” Sherlock nods his head curtly. “Obviously. Where else would I go?”

“Molly's going to kill you.” Lestrade warns. Sherlock's lips quirk into a mischievous smile. “And I'll enjoy every minute of it. Come on John.”

“Right…” The doctor mutters, and he grabs his shoes from beside the front door, quickly stuffing his feet into the brown footwear. Sherlock throws the door open, striding powerfully out of the house, John trailing behind him in a limp. Outside, Sally catches a glance at him, and frowns disapprovingly at him. “You leaving already, freak?”

Sherlock chuckles, flashing the evidence bag at the woman. “Doing a bit of research. Being useful. Unlike you lot.” She rolls her eyes, and her eyes turn on John limping behind Sherlock. “Oi, who said it was okay for you to leave?”

“Sally, fangs down. He’s with me.” Sherlock mutters, turning to stride past her. He pauses when he hears her laugh. “Really? What, is he kidnapping you?” She's speaking to John now, and Sherlock is surprised to turn around and find that John is frowning slightly at her. “No, I'm going of my own free will.”

“Come on John.” Sherlock repeats, beckoning to the man, turning around and striding over to the sidewalk to let his feet take him back to the main road to order to hail a cab over to Bart’s. After a few minutes, he's aware of John walking beside him again, and he turns to glance over at the man. “What'd she say to you?” Obviously the only reason John took so long to catch up to him – his limp isn't that bad.

John just shakes his head, and his brow is furrowed – clearly thinking hard about whatever it was that Sally had told him of. Sherlock shrugs the issue off. He doesn't care was Ms. Donovan has to say. Doesn't care about what any of them say. So long as he gets to keep doing his job, they could be calling him a mewling quim behind his back and he wouldn't give a fuck.

“Ah, taxi!” Sherlock calls out, raising his hand and drawing one of the London cabs off to the side. He opens the door and glances over at John – who seems to be having a bit of a flashback if the look in his eyes is any sort of clue. The detective lets out a huff of breath. “Oh, come on John we don't have all day! Murderer to catch and everything?”

The blonde seems to shake himself. “Oh, um, right.” He limps forward and gets into the cab, letting Sherlock climb in after him. The detective slams the door shut behind them and orders the cabbie to drive them off to St. Bart's.

“So, we _are_ going to St. Bart's then?” John asks, and Sherlock rolls his eyes, letting out an annoyed huff of breath. “Yes, obviously. Are you going to be this repetitive all night? It's rather annoying.”

John just rolls his eyes back at Sherlock. “I just wanted to make sure. I’ve gone through a bit of a trauma.” Sherlock tilts his head at the man, adjusting his body so he's looking a bit more fully at the blonde. “Yes, I meant to ask you about that. Obviously you've cried, because your eyes are red and puffy, but you don't seem to be wailing about it, even though you've known about her death for nearly fifteen minutes short of an hour now. Why?”

The doctor swallows, holding his head high in front of Sherlock as he straightens his shoulders. “I was in Afghanistan for the past five and a half years. I've seen men die; good men, and I've been able to sleep fine at night. One more death won't hurt that. Besides,” John snorts, shaking his head, his eyes darting out of the window for a moment. “I can be sad about her death without _wailing_ about it.” Sherlock's lips tweak when he notices the emphasis on the word that the man had taken from the detective. “Crying over it isn't going to bring her back.” John looks straight into Sherlock's eyes. “So I might as well help as best as I can to catch the bastard that put her in that state.”

Sherlock averts his eyes, his lips tweaking into a small smile. Oh, he remembers why he liked John Watson. He had a lot of spirit. “Good answer.” He says quietly, his eyes darting back over to the blonde. Very good answer indeed.

John runs a hand through his hair. “So, DI Greg Lestrade said that Molly was working on the evidence already?” He tilts his head up at the detective. “I don't suppose he meant Molly Hooper, did he?”

Sherlock's eyes flicker all over John's face. “Yes.” He answers simply, and John nods his head and starts talking about the bare minimum of an answer. “I thought so. See, I work at Bart’s, and there's only one Molly I know who would be willing to be up in the middle of the night to work on things for the police.”

John knew Molly? And he's been back in London for at most the past six months (that much is obvious from his statement that he was in Afghanistan for the past five and a half years). How many times had Sherlock been to Bart's in the past six months when he could have wandered into John and found him there? But no, fate would have it that they would meet on this night.

Sherlock shakes his head. No, he doesn't believe in fate. He's in complete control of his own destiny. No one has control over him. His hands tighten into fists for a moment, and he's sure that John notices, but the doctor doesn't say anything.

The rest of the ride is done in silence, and when they arrive at Bart's, Sherlock hops out of the cab without paying the cabbie, leaving John to sort out a few bills for the driver. Which is good actually, because Sherlock forgets to pay them all the time, and he gets hackled for it. Rather bothersome actually. Someone a bit more concerned with the mundane might be useful to have around.

They stride up into the building – and it's a good thing that Bart's is a hospital and open all hours of the night. The two of them walk inside, and the nurses recognize the both of them instantly, letting them pass by to the stairs. Never take the elevator. Sherlock never takes the elevator.

“A bunch of the nurses didn't seem to be so fond of you.” John remarks as they step down the stairs, starting their descent to the basement where the morgue is. Sherlock chuckles, a smirk rising to his lips. “I don't doubt it. Women tend to get rather resentful of someone who gets off with them in a hospital closet and then never calls again.”

Sherlock continues walking down the stairs, but he doesn’t hear the thunk of John's cane on the stairs, so he pauses and turns around. The blonde is staring at him, lips pressed tightly together. “That's a frequent thing with you then, is it? Sex with strangers?”

The darker haired man chuckles softly, taking a few steps back up the stairs so he's on the same level as John. “Why? Jealous?” He asks with a tilting smile, looking down at the blonde as his fingers moving to brush against John's hip. “We could have a quick go right now if you want.” His eyes gleam, and he bites his lower lip as he looks at John. “I still remember your ears were the most sensitive little things...” He trails off; a finger moving to brush against the doctor’s earlobe – and John just swats his hand away, looking at him disapprovingly. “One, I don't know if you're clean. Two, we're investigating a murder. And three, my girlfriend was just murdered!”

Instead of being offended or put off like anyone normal, Sherlock simply chuckles and pats John's cheek. “Shame. Maybe later.” He winks at John before he continues walking down the stairs. “Maybe against one of the tables in the morgue.” He hears an audible sound of frustration from the blonde, but the sound of his cane hitting the floor continues, and Sherlock smirks when he knows that John is following him. Oh, he's going to have fun with the doctor.

Sherlock shoves open both of the doors to the morgue, announcing his presence with the sound of the doors banging against the walls. His brother did always say he had a flair for the dramatic. John huffs behind him, sliding into the room. The detective's eyes spot the head of red hair he left not an hour ago. "”Why hello there Molly. Didn't think I’d be seeing you again so soon.”

Her head lifts up from whatever she'd been examining, and she sighs, her lips barely in a perceivable frown. “Sherlock. How _nice_ to see you again.” He grimaces slightly, waking over to where she's standing. Well, he probably deserves that. Usually it's at least a day or so until he has to see Molly.

“Oh. John.” He hears her surprise when she finally notices the doctor. “What're you doing here?”

Sherlock's eyes dart up to watch the interaction as he grabs a computer for himself. John licks his lower lip (god, is that going to be a habit with the man? And he thinks that Sherlock isn't going to have him. Cute.) and shuffles his feet a bit, leaning against his cane as he walks over to Molly. “Murder victim was Mary.” He says softly, and Molly instantly coos over him, walking over to the man and pulling him into a hug, expressing her condolences.

The darker haired man rolls his eyes at their expression of emotion. Useless thing emotion is. It's a sentiment found in the losing side.

He pauses, tilting his head at Molly. “Did you take off the lipstick?”

She glances over at him, and her pale lips press together, all traces of red gone. “It wasn’t working for me.”

Sherlock chuckles, turning his eyes back to the screen he’s working with. “Really? It was working for me. Your mouth is too small now.”

“Sherlock!” John says sharply, and the detective glances up to see the blonde shooting him a disapproving glance. “That was rather rude. Apologize.” Sherlock blinks a few times, tilting his head at the man, trying to figure out if he’s really serious. He is.

He clears his throat, glancing over at Molly. “Sorry.” He mutters, before his eyes go back to his computer, fingers flying over the keys. Molly clears her throat, and Sherlock hears her shuffling about, and he knows that she’s probably playing with the end strands of her hair like she does when she gets flustered. “So, um, what are you two here for then?”

John takes that question. “Oh, well, Sherlock wanted to do the search on the….” He swallows, and Sherlock’s eyes flicker up to the blonde, and he almost feels bad. It’s one thing to come home and find your lover dead… quite another to figure out they had been murdered by their other lover, of which evidence of that second lover’s existence was inside their body. “On the sperm.”

“Well, I’ve already got that done.” Molly glances between the two of them, and Sherlock raises his head sharply. “Really? That quickly?” He gives her a soft smile, and she nods. “Yeah, I was about to call Greg when you two walked in.”

Sherlock walks over to Molly, a smile plastered on his face. “Well, can we see the results please?”

Molly nods, and walks over to her station, pulling up a couple screens on the computer. “The DNA matches a man named George R. Stevens. Born right here in London in 1990, so currently aged twenty-three. All family members deceased. He currently works at a Laundromat down on First Street. Sixteen months ago he was arrested on charges of drug possession, but was released due to the lack of evidence against him.”

“Molly, you are brilliant!” Sherlock cries, fingers curling around her chin and planting a good kiss on her lips. He breaks off, grinning, and takes his phone out of his pocket, dialing the number of the Detective Inspector as he starts to walk, pacing up and down the floor.

“Ah… are you two, are you two together?” John quietly asks Molly, but since the dial tone is still ringing in his ears, Sherlock can hear the discreet question. Molly takes in a deep breath, and answers, obviously still a bit flustered. “Um, no, he just kind of does that.”

“What, go around snogging people?”

The dial tone continues to ring.

“Yeah. Usually only after they’ve been clever or useful though.”

Oh Lestrade, you have a mobile phone for a reason. Do pick up your phone.

“So… does that happen often?”

“More often than you’d think.”

_“Sherlock?”_

“Ah! Detective Inspector.” Sherlock smiles, motioning to the two chatterboxes that they out to zip their mouths shut – and sooner rather than later. “Molly figured out the identity of the murderer. His name is – ”

_“George R. Stevens.”_

Sherlock blinks in surprise, his lips dropping with gravity as he turns to face John and Molly. “How did you know the name of the killer?”

_“Because we found his body. You’d better come back to the house. You’ll want to look at this.”_

“Don't you dare let Anderson even sneeze near that body! We'll be right over!”

Less than ten minutes later, Sherlock and John are trekking into the backyard of the house, following the moving lights the police officers are carrying. Lestrade glances up from where he's been crouching to the ground, and he stands up when the two of them arrive. “We were searching the perimeter when one of my officers stumbled over here. He thought the ground looked a bit too upturned, and we decided to dig a bit. The result...” Lestrade glances down, and gestures a hand. “Well, you can see for yourself.”

Sherlock glances down where the detective inspector had gestured – and there's a large hole. He peers inside. Dead body. He raises an eyebrow, tilting his head at the man tucked into the shallow grave. Lestrade continues talking as Sherlock's eyes flit over the body, taking observations. “There's no ID on him, but my officer that stumbled upon the grave knew him. He was the one that arrested Stevens for drug possession sixteen months ago.”

The detective rises to his feet, and his eyes catch the look of disgust on John's face. Understandable. “Get someone to take the body out of there, I need to look at it closer.” His eyes turn on Lestrade's face. “And I'll need to speak to that officer of yours.”

Lestrade gestures to two men not standing far away, and then march over to dutifully lug the body out of its stashed hiding spot, and drop it unceremoniously on the ground. Sherlock scowls at that, but crouches down to examine the body anyway. Above his head, Sherlock hears the DI asking for someone to fetch his lieutenant. And then he feels John crouch down beside him.

“What can you tell about him?” The ex army doctor's voice is quiet beside him, and Sherlock has to glance over at him to see the genuine curiosity expressed in his eyes in order to believe that John is actually interested. His lips tweak slightly, and he lets his eyes roam over the body before he says anything.

Obviously he's dirty – been covered completely in dirt. “You're a doctor John – what would you estimate the time of death to be?”

John seems a bit surprised that Sherlock is asking for his input in the slightest. "Ahhh..." The man shuffles forward, fingers pressing against the flesh of the dead man. He takes in a deep breath. “Well, I’d need some medical equipment to be sure, but I wouldn't say anything more than an hour. Probably less.”

Sherlock nods his head again, eyes flitting around the body. Yellowed fingertips. Smoker. Rather grungy looking clothes. Dark and shaggy hairstyle. Not really a looker in Sherlock's opinion. Well, the man's physiological rating drops from the pale dead flesh, and the bullet wound in the back of his head. Carefully, Sherlock nudges the man over so that he's on his back, face towards the sky. Oh. Well, that's interesting. There's a good deal of mud caked onto his knees and shins. Isn't that an interesting new puzzle piece.

“Sherlock?”

He looks over at John, who's looking at him with shining blue eyes – full of curiosity and interest, and not impatience or anger. His lips tweak slightly, and he gestures to the dead man's knees. “You see that? His trousers are absolutely caked with mud. Which means...” Sherlock rises to his feet, eyes making a wide sweep of the backyard, before he strides powerfully over to a section of dirt where the earth is softer and where – yes, he was right – there are the imprint of shins in the mud.

“He would have been on his knees.” Sherlock gets down on his knees in the same position, lining his shins up with where the prints in the earth were made. He straightens his back, looking straight. “The bullet hole is in the back of his head.” His fingers migrate to the back of his own head, demonstrating the location for those watching. “He wasn't just killed. He was purposefully executed. He didn't resist.”

Sherlock licks his lower lip and gets up, striding back over to the body. “But you see this?” His fingers gesture to the man's cheeks. “Very faint, but you can see traces of water here. He'd been crying.” His hands move to rest on his hips. “This all suggests that he knew his killer. He was purposefully letting someone end his life, but he was crying. So he didn't want to die? If he didn't wish to die...” Sherlock pursers his lips together, the gears in his head churning for a logical explanation. “Maybe he was part of an organization, and did something wrong, and thus was offed for that purpose.”

His eyes dart over to John. “I'd say if that theory were correct, that it wasn't ever planned for your girlfriend to be hacked up tonight.” The doctor winces a bit at the terminology, but then he glances at the body, then back at Sherlock, and he smiles. “That was brilliant.”

Sherlock doesn't have time to let his cheeks pool with blood before there's an awkward coughing behind him. He turns on his heels, and looks down at the lieutenant in front of him. The man is scrawny, mousy eyed and pale, looking awfully frightened of Sherlock. “Ralph. Should have known it was you.”

Ralph shrugs his shoulders and gives Sherlock a weak smile. “Ah, yeah. Um, what do you want to talk to me about?”

“That man.” Sherlock gestures to the dead body on the ground without turning around. “How do you know him? What can you tell me about him? Anything and everything is important.”

The shaky man rubs nervous hands together. “Um, not much really. I knew him from sixteen months ago. Arrested him on suspicion of possessing illegal drugs. Um,” The man lifts his eyes to the sky, shifting his weight between his feet, as if an answer would just fall down from the sky for him. “Uh, he wasn't a very daunting man. Nice and quiet. Not really violent. He was beat up his first day sitting in jail. Um,” He shifts his weight again. “Honestly, I never would have suspected he'd be capable of pulling a gun on someone, much less taking a knife and slashing some poor girl up with it.”

Ralph look up at Sherlock, his expression naive and foolish. Sherlock sighs heavily. Honestly, where does Lestrade find his men? But the man keeps speaking. “But then, I guess you never really know what people are capable of, do you?” He shifts his weight again, mousey eyes darting over to the body.

“Anything useful?” Sherlock asks, and Ralph glances towards the ground guiltily. “Sorry, I dunno much. But, um, I do know that he was part of a gang. As far as I know he had straightened out a few months back, but you're free to check into his gang if you want. I've got details back at the office.”

Sherlock nods his head curtly. “Right, I'll come by in the morning and fetch them.” His eyes dart over to the dead body. “This case isn't going anywhere.”

Ralph nods and when it looks like Sherlock doesn't want anything more from him, the mousey-eyed man takes his leave, giving John a chance to walk up to Sherlock. The doctor tilts his head slightly, his cane still held tightly in his hand. Sherlock glances over at him. “It appears that your killer has been found. You won't need to waste any more of your life trying to seek out revenge for your girlfriend's murder.”

John nods his head, but he seems a bit distracted. “The case isn't really over though, is it?” Both men look towards the body, which police have started mucking about with. “There's still the whole problem of who shot George Stevens.”

The detective nods his head ever so slightly. “How right you are.” His lips tweak into the slightest smile. “I'm going to enjoy trying to solve it.”

John's eyes are on his again, and Sherlock remembers the way lust darkens those bright blue eyes. “I don't suppose you're willing to have an assistant with the case?”

Sherlock tilts his head slightly at the doctor. “You want to work with me?” John nods his head. “Yeah, you're a brilliant detective, and I've always love detective stories. It’d be interesting to see where this one ends up.”

The taller man licks his lower lip, a hint of a smile appearing on his face. “How do you feel about the violin?”


	3. Grow Up and Be Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grow Up and Be Kids lyrics: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sLTJkyDSCWk

John has been back in London for the past six months after getting shot in Afghanistan. Really, he couldn't live anywhere but London – it has always been his home, and he doesn't think he would be able to live anywhere else. Most of his friends are dead – killed in the war that he narrowly managed to escape. The few friends he had steady contact with no longer lived in London, and the city became awfully lonely for John. Until he had met Mary.

He'd been working shifts down at Bart's when it happened – after all, he'd hung around the hospital long enough before he left for Afghanistan, that the establishment was more than happy to offer the ex army doctor a job there. He met Mary late at night, during his first week back in the grand city. She had strode through those doors with her younger cousin – who had accidentally swallowed a toy car. John had managed to help for her cousin, and she’d given him her number in return. That's where it all started.

But now the lovely woman he had been falling for was dead. Slashed up and killed in her own house. And the last person John had expected to run into was Sherlock. The ghost from six years previous. He'd almost forgotten about that night – but the moment he caught a glimpse of the lanky figure, he'd known it was the detective. It was bizarre, seeing him six years later. He had changed, that much John could see with his own eyes. And he's positive something bad happened to his friend Dominick. Especially with the Detective Inspector's reaction. It was clear that Sherlock was friends with, or at least friendly colleagues, with this Greg Lestrade. John couldn't help it, but he was dying to know what happened.

He had no business to be so interested, really. None at all. Sherlock had been a one-night stand six years ago – John shouldn't be so eager to spend time with him. Shouldn't be blanking out to remember the way those smoky lips had folded against his own. Watching Sherlock work that night... it had been fascinating. Six years ago, he knew that the detective was smart – he just had no idea how much. His deductions really were brilliant. Once Sherlock pointed everything out, it seemed so obvious. His wonder over the man's mind overshadowed his despair over Mary's death.

He's still in her house though. The police took her body away two days ago, and he's left to arrange the funeral and contact all her friends to let them know the news. It's an awfully depressing job, but someone has to do it. Once Mary is safe in the ground, John can deal with moving on. And somehow he gets the feeling it won't be difficult with Sherlock Holmes around.

Holmes. John had finally learned the man's last name. It hadn't been something important six years ago, but it was nice to know something – especially since Sherlock seems to know everything about him just by taking a single glance in his direction. And boy did those eyes linger. He remembers the way those eyes had glinted at him on the stairway of St. Bart’s, his words smooth and seductive as the detective suggested to fuck John right there in the middle of the stairs. John wouldn't admit it to anyone, but the idea had really turned him on. But he pushed Sherlock away. He couldn't sleep with Sherlock when Mary was only dead for an hour. He needed a little bit of time.

That was the other funny thing too. For all of John's observation of the man over the night, it really seemed like Sherlock was the type of person to do a lot of one-night stands. There was definite friction between Sherlock and that lady on Greg's team – and there was something really big going on between Sherlock and Molly. John had known Molly was crushing on someone (and had been for a long time) and it was strange to figure out that it was Sherlock.

And Sherlock wasn't the only one who could deduce things. He'd seen the way Sherlock's hair had been all messed up on his head when he'd arrived at Mary's house that evening. Definite sex hair. Walking into the morgue – Molly had the same type of thing going on with her hair, even if she'd trained to restrain it into a ponytail. Knowing Molly's crush on Sherlock, it was highly unlikely their sexual encounters had been with different people. It was difficult to know where Sherlock stood when knowledge like that came to the table. He has to think hard about the idea of getting involved with the detective – as John’s always been a rather big fan of labels.

John lets out a sigh, dragging himself out of his thoughts to push himself to his feet, fingers curling around the handle of his cane. He limps over to the kitchen, deciding to make a cup of tea. It's been three days since Mary's murder. Seems like much, much longer.

He fetches the kettle and fills the container with water, before letting the water boil on the stove. Sherlock's words are clear in his mind. _"How do you feel about the violin?"_ The detective had gone on to explain that he played the violin when he was thinking, and that sometime he had a habit of not talking for days. When John said he enjoyed the sound of the violin, Sherlock gave him his address and then had left the house.

221B Baker Street.

John had looked up the address on Google. Sherlock lived in a flat, in a respectable neighborhood – and there was nothing to be frightened of. Really, there wasn't anything to be scared of.

Except...

John just somehow gets the feeling that if he goes over to Sherlock's flat, the detective is going to manage to seduce him, and John will end up back in bed with the man. And he's just not sure if he's ready for that yet. He feels like he needs to respect Mary's memory – but she _was_ cheating on him. A glaringly painful fact that wounded him deep in his heart. He probably won't hold out much longer. Just... one more day... one more day.

He's brought out of his thoughts again when the kettle whistles, informing him of the appropriate temperature. He busies himself with getting the tea ready, sorting out a bowl of cereal for breakfast. It feels a bit wrong to be living in Mary's house without her, but her sister asked him to just stay in the house until she got there. Mary had left her house to her younger sister in her will.

There was nothing in Mary's will about John.

That's another thing that has John worrying. Where is he going to live once Mary's sister arrives, and kicks John out? He can't afford a house by himself on an army pension. He would have to rent a flat, and he'd probably need a flatmate to help him cover the cost –

Oh. Sherlock has a flat.

No. No. John won't think about that. He’s not going to ask a man he slept with six years ago if he can move in with him. That would send the wrong message. It would.

But it's hard to deny the obvious chemistry between the two of them. Sherlock is devilishly handsome (anyone would have to be blind not to see that) – and the way his hands move about while he talks is absolutely enchanting. Plus it's clear that the detective was surprised and pleased when John had complimented him the other day. Perhaps it’s just John, but he gets the feeling that Sherlock just thrives off of compliments.

His phone buzzes – silent as it vibrates on the kitchen counter. John's fingers pluck the device from its resting spot, flipping it open and holding it to his ear. “Hello?”

_“Johnny? Is this the number of John Watson?”_

John's lips find their way into a smile, and he shuffles around the kitchen to fetch a teacup from the shelf without ever taking the phone away from his ear. “Hey Seb, what's up? I wasn't expecting you to call.”

_“Of course you weren't expecting me to call. You're too busy being all cute and domestic with your girl. How is Mary by the way? Tell her I said hello!”_

He swallows, and his eyes close for a moment, and he swallows hard before he picks up the kettle, pouring his tea into the fancy little cup of Mary's. “She's dead. Murdered a few days ago. Apparently she had a secret lover, and he killed her.”

There's a pause over the line. John raises the cup to his lips and he takes a sip of the warm liquid, letting the fluid flow back down his throat. _“Wow, mate, I'm really sorry. That's a tough break, anyway you look at it.”_

John nods his head, holding the phone in the crook between his ear and his shoulder as he shuffles over to the fridge, using both hands to take the milk out for his cereal. “Yeah, bit of a shock when it happened. And while her death was horrible – she was cheating on me. I'm not too broken up about it, but I'll still be respectful towards her memory for a while, you know what I mean?”

On the other side of the line, a deep voice transforms into a chuckle. _“Atta boy Johnny. Always the perfect little warrior. You soldier on dear boy.”_

John rolls his eyes, a slight smile on his lips as he pours the milk into his breakfast before returning the carton to its rightful frigid location. “So, you must have called for some higher purpose Sebastian. I know you, always busy working at your next job. Don't tell me you're coming to kill me?”

The soft chuckles converts into a blown out roar. _“Oh, Johnny, if I was going to kill you, you'd already be dead. You know that.”_

John smiles gently, fetching a spoon and lifting the first bite of breakfast into his mouth. He did know that. Sebastian Moran had been in his unit in Afghanistan back when John had first joined up. They had served about three years together before Sebastian's specialized skills in espionage caused the government to hire him for “confidential purposes”. But the two of them were good mates, so they kept in contact over the years. Being called up like this out of the blue – really, the only thing John can think of is that his friend got some time off and was looking for a good time.

_“I got the week off. Free to spend however I like. I'm in London visiting the boyfriend, and he suggested that I meet up with you. 'Cause you know I'm always yammering on about the good old days. Honestly, I think Jim is just tired of hearing my war stories and doesn’t want to upset me.”_

It's John's turn to chuckle, a lax noise in the back of his throat. “Well, I'm more than interested in meeting the mysterious Jim. How long have you two been together now? Two years? Three?”

He bets if he could have seen Seb's face, the man would have been rolling his eyes at the ex army doctor. _“Just two years. But really, some of the best two years of my life.”_ Sebastian lets out a laugh. _“Honestly, he's a bit crazy, but he's a fantastic lay, so I keep him around.”_

John takes another mouthful of his cereal, his eyes watching the little marshmallows turn into mush from prolonged exposure to the milk. “Seb, I know you love him, so don't even bother trying to hide behind that tough guy act in front of me.”

There's a soft sigh on the other line – but John had spent three years sharing tents with the bloke, and he knows from the sound of the sigh that a smile is tracing those weather worn lips. _“Yeah, I really do. I want to propose to him, but he's really not into labels or anything.”_

John smiles, munching on wet cereal. “You never know until you ask.”

There's a snort in his head, and he can picture the russet haired man shaking his head. _“Always the realist, aren't you John?”_ Deep breath. _“Come on, why don't you join us for lunch? I called up a couple of the other guys. We can all go out for lunch. Or, you know, down to the pub because that's the manly thing to do.”_

John chuckles, resting his hip against the kitchen counter. He covers a yawn with the back of his hand, glancing at the clock. Couple hours until noon. “Lunch would be fine.”

_“Great! I guess I'll see you then.”_

“Well, you want to tell me where we're meeting first? While this might not be my first time in London, I need a bit more than pure psychic energy in order to pick the location from your brain.” John's fingers reach out and pick up his teacup, taking another sip from the liquid, enjoying the taste against his tongue. He never adds anything to his tea – nor to his coffee. When he was younger, his dad had told him that if you didn't like coffee black, you didn't like coffee at all. The principle just sort of transferred over to tea without John ever even realizing it.

_“Oh, right.”_ There's a laugh. _“Just one second, I'll find the address. I know I wrote it down here somewhere...”_ He trails off, and John listens to the sounds of rustling papers as he chews up marshmallows into little tiny pieces.

_“Found it!”_ A deep breath of satisfaction, and John shakes his head at the idea of a smug smirk crossing that face. _“We're meeting up at a restaurant called Angelo's. Think you're capable of searching up the exact street name on your own?”_

The ex- army doctor chuckles softly, shaking his head at the man – but a small smile still on his face from the nice and easy conversation. “I am fully capable of doing that.”

_“Marvelous. I suppose I'll see you there then.”_

“I suppose you will.” John chuckles as Sebastian laughs and then hangs up the phone. He shakes his head, fingers turning the phone off and resting it on the counter as he plugs away at his cereal, fueling his body for the day.

He has the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, and his hands covered in soap when the doorbell rings throughout the house. "”It's open!” John shouts, but he knows that whoever is at the door won’t be able to hear him. With a heavy breath, John draws his hands out of the water, taking a dishtowel with him to dry his hands off as he strides over to the front door.

With a hand still partly wet, John opens the door, and he smiles sympathetically at the soft face staring back at him. “Jane, it's nice to see you again.”

Mary's younger sister gives John a sad smile, and steps forward to wrap her arms around John's middle, hugging him tightly. “I just wish it were under better circumstances.” She murmurs quietly, her long blonde hair brushing against his chin as she leans her body into him. The woman smells like strawberries. It seems like every time John sees her she smells like that.

Jane releases her grip from John, and fixes the purse strung over her shoulder. Her eyes are shining brown, and she looks like she's ready to start crying if John says the wrong thing. He opens the door wider for her, and she steps inside, eyes sweeping the house, familiarizing herself with the layout. According to Mary, Jane has been studying abroad in Paris for the past two years – and she's only been to visit Mary in her house five or six times; twice since John started living there.

She nods her head, running her fingers through her hair, before turning on her heels to look back at John. “It's a lovely home. I feel so awful for kicking you out.”

John gives her a wave of his hand, shaking his head. “Don't be ridiculous.” He shuts the door, and the two of them start walking back to the kitchen. “I wouldn't be able to stay here for long anyway. Memories, you know.” Jane grimaces, and ducks her head. “It really was awful of her to cheat on you like that. You're a terribly sweet guy.”

He nods his head, taking in a deep breath as they stride back to the kitchen, and John resumes his task of washing the dishes in the sink. “Give me a couple days to just find a place to live, and then I'll be out of your hair.” Jane nods her head eagerly, sliding into one of the chairs propped up against the kitchen counter. “Of course! I'm not just going to kick you out on the streets.”

Her eyes catch on a few papers resting on the counter, and John glances up from the soapy water to see Jane pulling the papers close to her. “Oh, those are the beginning arrangements for.... for Mary's funeral.” He places a cup onto the drying rack, setting about cleaning a pot from last night's supper.

“John, I can worry about the funeral! Please, don't worry yourself about it. She was my sister.” Her lower lip trembles, and those big glassy eyes look like they're about to start pouring out tears. “I wish I could have been here for her in her last couple years.... I'll do this. Give it a bit of a family touch.” She gives him a gentle smile, and he nods, agreeing with her. He didn't really want to deal with the funeral anyway. He's already had to organize one too many in his life.

They chat for a while as John cleans out the dishes. He informs her of the basic layout of the house, in case anything had changed from her last visit to the house, and spends a brief moment mentioning the lemon tree out in the back that Mary got in about six weeks ago. In turn, Jane talks all about her life in Paris.

Really, she talks way longer than John did, but the ex army doctor is a good listener. That, and he really couldn't think of what else to say to his dead ex-girlfriend's sister. So he listens to her yammer on about the scenery of Paris, about the nice people, and the joy of learning the language. She demonstrates a few phrases, and John has to admit that her accent is absolutely marvelous – even if he has no idea of what she's trying to say.

He glances at the clock as it gets closer to noon, and he quietly interrupts a speech she's giving on the food they have in Paris to tell her that he's going out with a few friends for lunch. John gives the girl his cell number in case she needs him, but he doesn't think he's going to be much more that two or three hours at most. He showed her where the landline was, and said he would call that number if for whatever reason he were going to be longer than that.

When John steps outside, he's glad that the sun is shining brightly, as he steps out simply wearing a jumper and his normal trousers and shoes. Nothing special, nothing conspicuous. Just him. Plain and boring John Watson. A man that nothing happened to... until two days ago that is. In fact, as John walks down the sidewalk and through the crowds of people, he nearly feels like he's barely a face amoungst the crowd. Just another person walking upon the earth – hardly important to anyone. His fingers grip his cane a bit tighter as he walks, hating that, hating the calm and the peaceful. Absolutely hateful. God, he just needs some action.

And not just sexual action.

He wouldn't admit it to anyone (especially not his psych) but he really misses the battlefield of Afghanistan. PTSD. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He's struggling with the shock of change of the danger of the field, and now suddenly he's a pedestrian again. And he just hates feeling like he's fading back into the crowd – not important.

John spends a nice walk getting to Angelo's – gives him a nice chance to stretch his leg out. Sherlock hadn't been wrong yesterday when he said it was a psychosomatic limp. Really, how could it not be when John had been shot in the shoulder? But he gets a glance at his old friends through the window of the restaurant, and his lips can't help but tug into positive formation.

He strides through the doors, and is instantly met with calls of “Johnny!”, and “John!”. Everyone excited to see him. The man would have blushed if it were anyone other than his old army buddies. People he hasn’t seen in years.

John stands in front of the men, his eyes flickering around the table. There's Sebastian, Errol and Gary. “Where'd your arse wander in from?” Gary laughs as John slides into one of the seats, resting his cane against the seat. The man's still the same as John remembers him – curly blonde hair and bouncing blue eyes, his face decorated with laugh lines and dressed in casual jeans and a tee shirt.

“What, think I'm not important enough to be invited to the gathering of the finest men Afghanistan has had the pleasure of dealing with?” John raises an eyebrow, and both Gary and Errol laugh in reply, Errol raising his glass in agreement with the statement before he takes a large gulp.

Errol looks a bit different – of course, last time John saw him, he didn't have that ugly looking scar running down the right side of his face. But his lips still tilt up in that ever-present smile of his. His hair is still cut short in military fashion, dark brown against tan skin. Brown eyes match the colour of his drink, and his hands have tiny cuts and nicks all over them.

Sebastian looks just as always, with his broad shoulders and well built arms. His dirty blonde hair is slicked over to side of his head, and his blue eyes are quick to flit around the table – never able to let up from the constant task of watching his surroundings. He's wearing a jacket, black shirt underneath – simple and easy.

“So, what brings all of you back to London?” John asks as a waitress comes over to get him a drink (he orders a Doctor Pepper), his eyes sweeping the table of men.

“I'm on leave.” Gary answers, a fond smile on his face. “Back visiting the wife and kids for a few weeks. Little buggers really missed me.”

“Oh, how are they?” John asks, tilting his head and smiling. Gary's little girl had only just been born when they'd all been shipped out together – so she must nearly be six now.

“Here,” Gary shifts in his seat, pulling out his wallet from his pocket. His nimble fingers pick out a photograph, and he flashes it at John, letting the blonde look at it. "Bonnie just turned six last month, and Linda is our precious little gem of two." John smiles as his eyes flicker over Gary's gorgeous wife and their two adorable kids – both of who have Gary's teasing eyes.

“They're gorgeous Gary.” John smiles, leaning back in his chair as the man slides the photograph back into his wallet. “You must be thrilled.” The blue eyed man chuckles, nodding his head, his fingers picking up his beer to lift it to his lips and taking a sip. Really, John is a bit jealous. Gary getting married so young and already having kids to look after and care for. John is now twenty-nine years old, and nowhere near close to settling down and having kids. Which really, is the only thing John wants from life. To spend the next sixty or so years of his life with that one special person and bring one or two kids into this world for him to look after.

“What about you Errol?” John tilts his head at the darker man, who gives bit of a grimace. “Like you John – I got shot.” It's then that the ex army doctor notices the cane leaning up against Errol's chair – really, they're like a bunch of old men the four of them. Scars and battle wounds like old men.

“I'm sorry.” He says softly, giving the man a gentle smile. Errol just shrugs his shoulders, a smile on his face. “Don't worry about it. Fighting in that place – it was bound to happen.”

After a moment of silence, Seb scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Come on guys, we're supposed to be to have a good time! Stop with all the frowning faces!” John snorts, shaking his head at the man, but their other two companions just laugh.

“Hey, what about you Moran?” John leans back in his chair as the waitress comes back and sets his drink down at the table. She gives him a soft smile that suggests everything, but John just shakes his head, and she walks away a bit disappointed. He turns his head back to Sebastian. “What happened to your boyfriend showing up today?”

Sebastian sighs a bit, fingers weaving through his hair – and John wonders how his hand doesn't get all sticky with gel. “Jim got caught up at work. Couldn't manage to slip out under his boss's nose.” John nods his head in understanding, and the brighter male laughs suddenly. “Actually, I think he used that as an excuse. Doesn't want to sit around listening to us talk about the war.”

Errol and Gary both snort, shaking their head. “Yeah, like we're going to be chatting about a place where we have to be all the time.” Gary mutters, shaking his head. “Much rather talk about something more...mundane, you know?” The fellow licks his lower lips, eyes landing on John. “So, what about you mate? You got anyone?” He jerks his thumb at Moran. “Muscle over there has Jim, Scar has Vanessa, and I've got my gorgeous wife Katherine. You got anyone in your life?”

Both Sebastian and John grimace at the same time. The ex army doctor heaves in a deep breath. “I had a girl, but she was murdered a couple days ago.”

The table falls silent, and Gary looks almost ashamed of asking. They all take a few moments to look down at their menus, trying to compensate for the awkward silence. John's fingers drum on the table, and he can't help but think about Sherlock, and what the mates would have said if John had brought him up instead.

The same waitress comes back to the table to take their orders, curling her hair around her fingers as she speaks to John, obviously flirting – but John really isn't interested. They all order a variety of hamburgers and fries – and Gary orders a double-stacked hamburger with everything on it.... and a salad.

Errol snorts as the waitress walks away. “You know, I don't think a salad is very effective if you're going to be eating all that meat.”

Sebastian winks at Errol's terms, causing the man to cough in realization before bursting out into laughter. Gary rolls his eyes, but his shoulders are shaking with silent laughter. “It's not for me, idiot.” He rolls his eyes, shoving Errol's shoulder. “If you had been paying attention earlier, you would have remembered that my friend Jamie is coming by. She called me a few hours ago, complaining of boredom, and I invited her along.”

Errol raises an uncertain eyebrow at the man, his lips hinting at a deeper meaning to his friend’s words. “How old is she? Cause mate, you've got a lovely wife, you don't need to be – ”

Gary's hand smacks over Errol's mouth before he can say any more words, causing the darker haired man to laugh against his hand, Sebastian shaking his head as John watches in mild amusement, lips pulled back into a smile. Garry pulls back with a wild cry, clutching his hand to his chest. “You licked me! Dude, not okay!”

“Then don't put your hand over my mouth!” Errol shakes his head, smile splitting wide and a laugh bubbling out of his mouth as Gray wipes the palm of his hand on his jeans. Sebastian smirks. “Gary you ought to know that kind of behavior is only acceptable in bed.”

Everyone groans, and Sebastian just smiles contentedly to himself, rather pleased with his choice of words.

“She's a friend of my wife's, okay?” Gary answers, rolling his eyes as he gives out his explanation. “And I'm pretty sure she's a lesbian, so you don't need to worry about me.”

Errol's eyes simply light up. “You sure nothing is going on with her and your wife though? Cause, you know, that'd be pretty hot to walk into.”

Sebastian laughs. “Errol, if you're interested in seeing some gay action, all you had to do was ask.” And then he pulls out a piece of mistletoe from his pocket and holds it above his head, eyes turning on John. “Come here lover boy!”

John barely has a chance to laugh before Sebastian’s lips are on his, firm and sturdy in a chaste kiss, but still managing to get the taste of the bloke's Sprite into John's mouth. He hears Gary laughing and Errol groaning beside them before Sebastian pulls away, tucking the mistletoe back into his pocket, a contented smile on his face.

“I don't think I even want to know why you have mistletoe in your pocket.” Errol shakes his head, fingers on either side of the bridge of his nose, pinching as he lets out a heavy sigh. Sebastian simply wiggles his eyebrows. “For exactly the same reason I've got mistletoe tattooed on my pelvis.”

There's a chorus of groans from around the whole table – and they're all spared from any more of the heavily sexualized conversation when their food arrives, all warm and dripping with toppings. The table dissolves into silence as the four men dig into their meal, and John smiles as he eats, glad to be hanging out with his old mates again.

It's a few minutes later when the silence is broken, and it's done by Gary – who waves a hand in the hair and smiles. “Jamie!” He calls out, pausing a moment to swallow down a bite of his hamburger. “Jamie, over here!”

John turns around in his seat to catch a glance at the young girl – whose shoulders sag with relief when she finds them. The girl (god, she can't be more than twenty or twenty one, can she?) slides down into the seat beside John, her thin fingers tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Hello b-boys. S-sorry I'm late.” She stammers, glancing around with a shy smile. “Traffic was a b-b-bitch.”

John chuckles as Gary goes about doing the introductions, his eyes glancing the girl over. She wore a simple purple V-neck shirt, a little purse strung over her shoulder. There was a simple silver cross hung around her neck, and her legs were crossed beneath a long, flowing skirt. Her lips were covered in a glossy pink lipstick, and long eyelashes and a hint of colour on her eyelids framed her large eyes. The girl had warm, chocolate brown eyes that seemed so meek, soft and inviting, and she had a very prominent freckle under her left eye.

“It's nice to m-meet you all.” Jamie says, blushing softly as Gary slides the plate of salad over for her. “Here, I ordered you something when the waitress came by. I know you're into that whole health food kick.”

She giggles quietly, her hand covering her mouth to stifle the noise. John's lips tilt up slightly. She's kind of cute. Adorable actually. And on any other day John would have gone for her – but his mind is still too occupied with dark curly hair, sharp cheekbones, and clever blue eyes.

“So, let me s-see if I c-c-can get this all right.” Jamie smiles, leaning back in her seat, her fork held between two fingers. Her fork points towards Errol. “You're Errol S-Smith.” He nods, smiling at her, and her fork turns on Seb. “S-Sebastian M-Moran.” Sebastian nods his head, his fingers bringing his burger up to his lips for another bite. Brown eyes turn on John, and she bites her lower lip, a puzzled expression on her face. “T-Tom Watson?”

“John Watson.” He corrects her, giving her a soft smile in return for her effort. Jamie snaps her fingers, looking a bit disappointed. “S-sorry. I'm n-not really good with names.” Her shoulders hunch, and she ducks her head, obviously embarrassed.

“Hey, it's okay.” John replies, smiling at the girl. “I really don't mind.” Jamie lifts her hand and offers the ex army doctor a soft smile, before she takes her fork and stabs at her salad.

The whole table dissolved into conversation as people eat. At one point, Sebastian and Gary get into an argument over if white chocolate or milk chocolate tastes better, and Errol simple watches in amusement as he munches on his hamburger. John sided on Sebastian's side of milk chocolate – and Jamie politely stuttered out that she was allergic to chocolate, this making Sebastian the winner in the debate since Errol decided not to cast his vote. Gary punched him in the arm for that.

Errol and Sebastian fell into conversation when Gary decided to order a second hamburger, talking about their others (boyfriend in Sebastian's case, and girlfriend in Gary's) and how both men are pondering on if they ought to pop the question soon. Gary dug into his second hamburger, leaving Jamie and John to talk quietly as the couples talked about the pros and cons of marriage. (From what John heard, the main pro was that the sex was phenomenal, and the con was all the nagging – although John is pretty sure that's just because Gary has a bad habit of walking with his shoes on inside the house. Especially when his shoes are caked in mud.)

So Jamie and John talk. She's super shy, and John finds it adorable that she opens up after a bit, and stutters her way through a story about the Victoria Secret's shop that she works at. She asks John about his history with the military, and he talks very briefly about the five and a half years he served in Afghanistan – mostly sticking to the fact that he was an army doctor and practiced medicine. He eventually turned to telling stories of the crazy things people walk into the emergency room with. This one time, some guy had even turned up with his skin the same colour as an orange! Easy solve that one though. (Actually, Sherlock would have found it mundane by how simple it was; the man had simply been eating too many carrots – which turned his skin yellow – in conjunction with certain vitamins that were turning his skin red. Simple colour calculation. You mix yellow with red and you get orange.)

Eventually though, the hours start to wane, food vanishes from plates, and drinks drop from their glasses. There's a moment of happy content in the air, when a phone starts blaring the Beatles’, _I Want To Hold Your Hand_.

Gary apologizes and slips his phone from his pocket, holding it up to his ear. “Katherine?” There's a look on his face that says clear to everyone at the table: oh shit, I'm in trouble. He swallows, nodding and murmuring yes at various points. Sebastian makes the sound of a whip cracking, and Gary shoves the man – who dissolves into a fit of laughter.

Gary hangs up his phone, and pushes himself to his feet. “Sorry to cut this short fellaws. The wife's in a bit of a fit, and I have to jet back home.”

Errol raises an eyebrow, not believing that for a moment. “Come on Gary, what'd you mess up this time?”

The man's face darkens and he glances away. “I, uh, might have made the washing machine overflow. _Accidentally!_ ” He adds onto the end, as if that will save him from the laughter that turns into a roar around that circular table.

“Oh, piss off the lot of you.” Gary mutters, but he's smiling as he picks up his coat and slides his arms into it. Sebastian smiles at the man, shaking his head. “That woman is a saint with you Gary. Don't you ever let her go.”

The smile on Gary's face is soft and loving, and John knows that he's thinking about his wife. “I don't intend to.” And then he leaves with a wide smile, promising to meet up with all of them again before he gets shipped out again.

Errol rises to his feet. “I ought to get going too. My girl and I are going to the movies tonight, and I should make sure my flat isn't a mess before she arrives.”

They bid the darker man a farewell as he picks up his cane and limps away, turning five companions into three. Sebastian stretches his arms out, rolling his shoulder blades. “So, Jamie, how far away do you live? I could give you a ride back if you want.” He jerks his thumb at John. “This poor bloke is too lame to own a car, so he can't offer you anything.”

John rolls his eyes, and the girl giggles, folding her hands into her lap. “A ride would be l-lovely, thank you.” Sebastian nods his head and pushes himself to his feet, mimicking Jamie's actions. “You going to be alright mate?”

The ex army doctor looks up at the man, his eyes flickering all over the concerned face. Before he has a chance to answer though, there's a buzzing in his pocket. He holds up a finger and takes out his phone, the screen lighting up with a text from... from Sherlock.

Got a lead. SH

Come at once if convenient. SH

John's lips tweak into a smile, and he pushes himself to his feet. “You know Seb, I think I am going to be alright.” He smiles, taking in a deep breath as he takes his cane into his hand. The man smiles at him, and his eyes don't miss the text that had lit up on John's phone. He raises an eyebrow, as if to say to John 'we're talking about this later'.

A small cough catches John's attention, and he turns to see Jamie blushes softly, a pen in her hands. “If you ever n-need someone n-next time you're at the m-mall,” Her thin fingers take John's hand, the warmth of her fingertips spreading onto John's skin as she presses the cool tip of the pen into John's skin, drawing the eleven numbers of her phone number onto his skin. “C-Call me.”

John chuckles and nods his head. “Of course I will.” He answers, and Jamie smiles, her whole face lighting up like that was the best idea in the world. Sebastian chuckles and pats John on the shoulder, and the three of them make their way outside. They separate at Sebastian's car, the two climbing in, and Jamie saying goodbye to John with one last wave of her hand before they drive off, and John is left alone on the sidewalk.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and John takes a glance at the new text.

If inconvenient, come anyway. SH

Could be dangerous. SH

John smiles.


	4. Animal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animal with Lyrics: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2yUsLuvRrwM

Sherlock takes in a deep breath and stretches out his shoulders where he stands in the bathroom, his eyes darting over his reflection. True to what he'd texted John a moment ago, he'd gotten a lead on the case. Sherlock had dived into research the past couple days (well, mostly a couple hours of research; he'd spent the rest of the time avoiding phone calls, and then visits, from Mycroft by traveling to various places throughout the city) and discovered the names of a few of the men from George Stevens' gang. Most were dead or locked in jail, but Sherlock found the name of one who worked at a bar right there in London.

His name is Harvey Dustin McFarland and he works as a bartender at the club _The Cat's Meow_ five days a week from seven in the evening to three in the morning. The man is one hundred and seventy five centimeters tall and his hair is naturally a dark brown – but Sherlock has obtained information that proves that Mr. McFarland has dyed his hair a frightfully bright rouge that will be easy to spot in a crowd. Sherlock has the rest of the man's personality and appearance memorized up in his head, tucked away into a drawer for future use when they get to the club.

His phone buzzes where it rests on the counter. Sherlock's fingers tap on a few buttons to bring the new text from John Watson to the front.

I'll be there in a few minutes. 221B Baker Street, right? JW

Sherlock's lips tweak slightly, and he types back a response. Correct. SH

He places his phone down again, his eyes flickering over the mirror again, tilting his head at his reflection, his lips pursued in dissatisfaction. Going undercover is always a lot of work, but it’s something Sherlock throws himself into wholeheartedly. He had been a bit of a theatre nerd when he was still in school.

That, and dressing up as can be downright sexy. Especially when in the right context.

Tonight, Sherlock is dressing up as a woman. The club they are going to is just a normal club – if it had been a gay club, Sherlock would have just worn one of his finest suits. However, it's not, and Sherlock has found that men are much more likely to give up information to a woman than a man when drinking at a bar. Hell, more likely to give up information to women in general. Sexist, but true. Women are simply good at finding out the things that they want.

Sherlock's eyes wander over his outfit, pondering over if he needs to add anything else. He's donned a little black dress, the hem falling just above his knees. The man also has tights pulled up over his legs to hide the sparse hair (there is no way in hell he was waxing to get rid of the hair – he had tried that back in Uni and it hurt like a bitch), and he's slipped his feet into shoes that appear appropriate for dancing, but will still allow Sherlock to be able to run if the need arises.

He's pulled a black jacket over his shoulders, silver buttons lining the sides to be done up. Honestly, he had a bra on underneath the dress and stuffed in order to give him the appearance of having breasts – and it's actually quite convincing. And just because he can, Sherlock has a plain silver necklace around his neck.

Then you get to the face. Sherlock's sharp cheekbones are hidden by the waves of long hair that fall from the wig he's wearing. Black wig to match his eyebrows, and the fake hair falls in curls just below his shoulders. He's fluffed his face up with a bit of foundation, and lined his eyelashes in dark mascara before adding splashes of red on his eyelids. To finish everything off, he's lined his lips with a bright red lipstick.

But he feels like there's something missing. Something. Something that needs to be added. His shoes click against the bathroom tiles as he leaves the room, striding into his bedroom. His closet doors are already thrown open, and his eyes quickly scan various parts of other outfits hung up. Sherlock's tongue licks at his lips, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, before his features relax into a smile, and he pulls a red scarf from the closest, folding it around his neck.

He walks back to the bathroom, taking a quick glance of himself in the mirror. Yes. That's what was missing. Perfect.

And just to look the convincing woman, Sherlock grabs a red handbag (because really, matching colours is important; he is even wearing red pants – though he doesn't think anyone will need to see those.... unless he can convince John later) and slings his arm through the handle space.

Then his ears pick up the sound of Mrs. Hudson's voice downstairs, and he tilts his head to the side to listen to the conversation.

“Oh you're looking for Sherlock? He's just upstairs, the lamb. Getting ready for a night on the town I believe.”

“Thank you, um...?”

“Mrs. Hudson, love. Landlady here. Are you interested in sharing a flat with Sherlock?”

“Sh-sh- who said anything about a flat?”

“Oh, don’t get all flustered now. Sherlock was just talking to me the other day about looking for a flatmate. I thought that's what you were doing here.”

“No, I'm here because he texted me a few minutes ago. I’m here to see what he needs help with.”

“Oh, how nice.” Sherlock hears her soft laugh from downstairs. “My husband was always like that too. Always dashing about everywhere.”

“Right, well, I'm just going to go on up, is that okay?”

“Oh, fine, fine dear. Don't let an old lady like me bore you with her stories.”

“Mrs. Hudson, I'd love to hear your stories, I just want to see what Sherlock needs first.”

“Okay dear. Enjoy yourself.”

Sherlock hears his landlady chuckling to herself, and his lips lift up in a smirk. Oh, Mrs. Hudson knows the kinds of things he gets up into his flat. Well, how could she not? It's not like Sherlock is exactly quiet in bed.

He hears John's limping steps up the stairs, and Sherlock walks into the living room, taking a moment to bend over the notes he has strewn about the living room table and double check the address of the club they're going to.

“Oh.”

He hears John's surprised voice, and he lifts his eyes up to the blonde to catch him glancing about in confusion. “Oh, I'm sorry, do I have the wrong floor number? I didn't mean to just walk in on you...” He trails off, and Sherlock rolls his eyes at the confusion in the ex army doctor's face.

“John, don't be ridiculous. It's me.” Sherlock stands up straight, hands on his hips. Instantly, he watches as John's eyes drop down Sherlock's person, mouth slightly agape before his eyes return to Sherlock's face. “Sher.... Sherlock?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock mutters, eyes going back to the map, fingers brushing across one of the papers.

“You're.... you're in drag.” John finally manages to splutter out, and Sherlock glances over to the blonde to catch the look of disbelief on his face. “Thank you for pointing out the obvious, John. Anything else you would like to get off your chest before we get down to business?”

Sherlock's eyes drop down John's person just for a moment, and his lips tweak as he catches sight of the slight bulge in John's trousers. Hm. How lovely of John to wear tight fitting trousers like that. His legs look great in them.

John shifts his weight on the balls of his feet, and he coughs uncomfortably. “Um, _why_ are you in drag?” He asks, tilting his head at Sherlock. “Is this a...a thing with you?”

The detective raises an eyebrow at John. “Do you have a problem with me dressing like a woman?” He stands up straight, hands back on his hips again as he frowns disapprovingly at the ex army doctor. “Really John, I would have thought better of you. There's nothing wrong with dressing up like a woman, because there's nothing shameful in being a woman. Honestly, it's attitudes like that which are the reason that sexism still exists in our world today.”

John's mouth gapes open for a moment, and then his tongue slips out of his lips, wetting them and causing Sherlock's lips to tweak up in a slight smile. That's rather attractive. The doctor takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “That's not what I meant. You look.... you look...” His eyes dart up and down Sherlock's body again, and he lets out a deep breath that makes Sherlock feel rather successful for having such an effect on the man. “Really convincing.”

That's what John finishes with, but Sherlock knows that John likes it. John's fingers thread through his hair, and he shifts his weight from one leg to the other, his fingers gripping his cane. “I just.... why?”

“I told you. Got a lead.” Sherlock answers simply, his fingers moving to his ears, brushing against the lobes. He had been debating on putting on earrings earlier, but had decided against it. He didn't have any studs that went with this outfit, and anything too dangly could possibly get in the way if Sherlock was forced to resort to physical violence.

“Got a lead where?” John questions, his eyes still unable to move from Sherlock's person. A fact that doesn't escape the detective, and makes him feel rather smug.

“One of the members of Stevens’ old gang still lives here in London. His name is Harvey Dustin McFarland.” Sherlock's fingers snatch up a picture on the top of the photographs he has stacked on the living room table, holding it up for John. The picture depicts a man around forty years old, grizzled face with bushy eyebrows but an already balding head. His eyes are dull blue, and there are bags under his eyes. The picture is only a mug shot, but it is possible to see the glimpse of a dark tattoo on the lower section of the man's neck, his shirt covering up the majority of the mark.

Sherlock waits until John leans back slightly, indicating he's done looking at the photograph, when Sherlock snatches up another and shoves it in John's face. “He works at this club. We are going there.”

John raises an eyebrow, his blue eyes lifting to Sherlock's face in disbelief. “We're going to a club called _The Cat's Meow_?” The detective nods, resulting in the doctor letting out a guffaw of laughter before shaking his head.

Sherlock places the photograph down, and leans back to let his eyes stretch up and down John's person, his fingers pressed up against his ruby red lips. “Well, first thing's first. You're not going to a club looking like you just walked off the streets.”

“To be fair, I really did just walk off the street.”

The detective waves his hand, disregarding John's comment. And then Sherlock's eyes catch on the sharpie imprinted numbers on the doctor's forearm, peeking out of the sleeve of John's shirt.

_"Lestrade, listen to me! You're going after the wrong man!” Sherlock yelled at the Detective Inspector, his hands curled into fists as his teeth gritted in anger._

_The older man turned around, a frown on his face. He stalked back to the boy, and his eyes darted about at the rest of his squad staring at them. “Look, Sherlock. I told you that you could come look at the crime scenes. I really can't bend the rules anymore by letting you get up close and deduce things, or whatever the hell it is that you do.”_

_“But you're going to put an innocent man away! Please, just listen to what I have to say!” Sherlock was practically tearing his hair out in frustration. So what if he was seventeen? He knew who killed that woman! Why couldn’t any one else see it?_

_“No, Sherlock. And that's my final word.” Lestrade glared at him and gave him that "Dad" look – the one that said if you uttered one more word you were going to really regret it. The DI walked away and Sherlock let out a cry of aggravation. “You're all idiots!”_

_“Hey,” There was a soft voice by his side, and Sherlock spun on his heels, his eyes still blown up in anger as they came to rest on a young cop with curly red hair trying to escape the confines of his hat. He had soft freckles on his nose, and his lips were a bit lopsided, but he smiled at Sherlock. “You're disturbing the rest of the squad. You want to get away from the crowd and tell me your theory?”_

_Sherlock's shoulders sag in relief, and he nodded his head eagerly. Finally, someone was going to listen to him. The redhead jerked his head at Sherlock, smiled again, and the two walked past the yellow tape and over to one of the police cars. He pulled two cups of coffee from inside the vehicle, and handed one over to Sherlock._

_The boy took the drink, lips pressing against the rim to take a sip. He face blanched at the taste. Straight coffee. Ugh. Beside him, the police officer laughed. “Sorry, I take my coffee strong. You're more of a sugar bloke, aren't you?” His words trailed off in a chuckle, and he raised his own cup to his lips to take a drink. “If you want, we could go to a coffee shop and I could buy you a new cup of coffee. Something with sugar, eh? And then we'll walk away from all this noise while you talk.”_

_Sherlock bit his lower lip, and glanced over at Lestrade. He'd come here with the DI, and his brother was trying to drill it into him that it was bad manners to abandon the man who drove you around town. Sherlock didn’t drive. He turned back to the redhead; eyes flickered up and down his body. Open body language. Very relaxed and easy going. No pets. No romantic attachments. Just an open man who wanted to buy Sherlock a cup of coffee._

_He licked his lower lip before both lips turned up in a smile. “I prefer tea.”_

_“I can do tea.” The redhead smiled and gestured for Sherlock to start walking away from the crime scene. Sherlock smiled again, and walked, his shoes crunched under newly fallen snow from earlier that night. He pulled his coat closer over his shoulders, and glanced at the redhead beside him – momentarily grateful that the redhead was roughly the same height as he was._

_As they walked, Sherlock started to explain his theory without any prompting from the redhead. His hands moved about as he talked, explained to the officer how the murdered woman couldn't have been killed by the man that Lestrade thought because that man was gay! The woman had obviously been killed by a lover – seriously, had you even_ looked _at the marks on her neck? Those weren't finger bruises! Those were obvious hickies. And there was no sign of a struggle. Whoever killed her would have had to get extraordinarily close in order to stab her. That, and the man Lestrade believed committed the crime was a blonde – and there was_ clearly _a long dark hair on her shoulder. And it couldn't have been the woman's hair because her hair was died blue._

_Sherlock finished speaking – and they're in a small cafe. The redhead had bought him a cup of tea with two sugars, and he sipped at the same order for himself. He smiled up at Sherlock. “That's brilliant.”_

_The boy blushed, glanced down at his tea. His fingers curled a strand of hair behind his ear before he lifted his eyes to the redhead's. His eyes were bright green, and Sherlock liked the way that they were looking into his own blue eyes. “You think so?”_

_The man laughed, and a bright grin spread wide across his face. “Of course! It was fantastic! I don't think I've ever seen anyone be that perceptive before! You were.... you were brilliant.” His tongue slipped out of his own lips, and he bit his lower lip in nerves, before his fingers slid into the pocket of his trousers. “Come on, give me your arm.”_

_“My arm?” Sherlock asked in confusion, rested his left arm on the table, and his eyes peered curiously over at the other man._

_“Mhm.” The redhead nodded his head, smiled, and he took a Sharpie marker out of his pocket. His fingers pushed up the sleeve of Sherlock's jacket and shirt, fingertips warm on Sherlock's skin – sent a shiver through his body. The tip of the black marker pressed against his skin, wet and cool as eleven numbers were written against his skin. Sherlock's mouth spread into a wide smile across his face as the redhead added a small little heart after the number._

_The police officer got to his feet, took a sip of his tea, now in a portable container (Sherlock hadn’t realized he'd done that). “Now, I'm going to get back to my post and go after this man you think is the culprit. Can't have an innocent man suffer for a guilty man's crimes, can I?”_

_Sherlock's eyes flickered back down to the number on his skin. “You...you want me to call you?” His eyes slid back onto green orbs, and that freckled face split into a smile. “Well, I prefer to text, but yeah. If you need anything, or if no one will listen to you. I'll listen.”_

_The boy blushed, glanced away, unable to keep the smile off of his face. “Is that supposed to be some kind of line?”_

_For a moment, Sherlock was afraid that the redhead's smile would just grow wings and fly off his face with how wide and bright he smiled. But it was dazzling. “It's only a line if it gets bought.”_

_Sherlock bit his lower lip, and smiled with a flushed face as he held out his hand to the police officer. “My name's Sherlock.” Warm fingers slid into Sherlock's hand, and sent Sherlock's heart racing._

_“Dominick.”_

“So, what exactly do you want me to do? Go back and change?”

Sherlock blinks out of the memory when he hears John’s voice. His lips dip down into a frown, and his fingers grab John’s wrist, holding his arm out and pushing the sleeve up. “What is this?” He asks, his tone snappy and tight, the anger leaking through. But why is he angry? It’s not like he owns John.

“It’s a phone number.” The doctor answers simply, blue eyes on Sherlock’s face as the blonde raises an eyebrow of surprise at him.

Sherlock drops his arm, rolling his eyes and letting out an aggravated sigh. “Yes, John, thank you for explaining that. I had no idea what a phone number looked like. Really, thank you for enlightening me.”

John snorts and crosses his arms over his chest, cocking his head at Sherlock, a bit of a clever grin on his face. “You’re jealous.”

The detective smirks slightly, and his eyes land on John’s face as he walks closer to the blonde. “Why would I be jealous…” He starts, fingers brushing against John’s hips and ducking his head slightly so his breath is on John’s ear. “When you’re here with me right now?”

The blonde doesn’t move, and Sherlock licks the edge of John’s ear, feeling the man shiver beneath him – but he doesn’t move away. Sherlock smirks against John’s skin, pressing closer to the blonde; close enough to feel the doctor’s body heat. “Now, why would I be jealous of some girl giving you her number, when I’m going to have you all to myself all night?”

Sherlock backs away, moving away from John and hearing the blonde letting out a breath. He presses his fingers together. “No, I’ve got clothes for you to put on.” The detective waves his hand towards the hallway. “They’re in the bathroom. Go change.”

“Why should I?”

Sherlock turns around to see John standing defiantly with his hands on his hips, eyes on the detective. He smirks slightly, his lips touching his fingers. “Because I said dangerous,” His eyes flicker up and down John’s body before resting back on his eyes. “And here you are.”

John huffs and glances away, before nodding his head and mumbling something under his breath, before he limps away to the bathroom, shutting the door tightly behind him. Sherlock chuckles softly, a smirk on his lips as he flips through the papers on the table again, just fixing them up.

He hears footsteps on the stairs, and Sherlock tilts his head to find Mrs. Hudson climbing up the stairs. He face drops and she sighs. “Sherlock, the mess you've made of the place.” She shakes her head, her skirt flowing around her ankles as she walks forward, fingers moving to straighten about the room.

Sherlock chuckles and smiles softly at her. “Sorry Mrs. Hudson. I'll clean it up a bit when I get back.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, her hands resting on the back of an armchair in the living room. “Are you going out with that young man who walked in a few minutes ago?”

He chuckles softly, a smile on his lips as he sits down on the couch, crossing his ankles over each other. “Yes, I am, but we're going off to go get information out of a criminal.” Mrs. Hudson shakes her head in disbelief, but there's a smile on her face. “Well, I'll be at Mrs. Turner's tonight for some Bingo, but please be quiet when you get back, okay dear?”

“Alright Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock replies as she turns and leaves the room, carefully walking back down the stairs – minding her hip the whole way down. He hears the click of the bathroom door lock, and his eyes are up on the hallway as John walks back into the living room.

“I don't know about this Sherlock.” John mumbles, glancing down at himself, fingers fixing the vest on his chest. “I feel like this is trying too hard.”

The detective smiles, his eyes taking their time sliding down John's body. Sherlock had the man dress up in a white dress shirt and a black vest with two pockets on the sides. He was holding the dark jacket Sherlock had lain out for him, and his legs were covered in the dark trousers Sherlock had chosen – and they do fit the blonde ever so nicely. John had the black bowtie left undone around the collar of his shirt, and he frowned at Sherlock. “Is this all really necessary?”

“Of course it is.” Sherlock nods his head, before pushing himself up out of his chair and striding over to John. “It's high end club. You have to look like you belong there.” His fingers take the ends of John's bowtie, standing close to the blonde – but not close enough for them to touch, the space between their bodies like a physical ache that was plaguing every pore of Sherlock's body.

He starts pulling and tugging the ends of the bowtie together, neatly tying the bowtie against John's collar, fixing the ornament so that it's straight. “I have to go in with a bit of eye candy, don't I?” His lips tweak in a smirk again, and he takes the jacket from John's hand – who seems to have frozen in his spot, fingers white from gripping his cane so tightly. Sherlock holds the jacket open for John, the back to Sherlock's body so that John would have to turn around in order to slip his arms in. “Come on, we've hardly got all night.”

“It's barely five.” John mutters quietly, but he lets out a deep breath and leans his cane against the wall before limping up to Sherlock, turning his back and slipping his arms through the open armholes. Sherlock steps close to John, helping the man slip the coat on as he simultaneously presses his whole front against John's back, bodies touching from Sherlock's chest to his legs, his crotch pressed right up against John's arse. His fingers straighten out the jacket, making sure the arms are snug on John's body from behind the blonde.

“There.” He bends his head slightly so his lips are at John's ear, his words soft and suggestive. “You look gorgeous.” His tongue tastes the blonde's earlobe with a lick to his skin. The doctor takes in a sharp breath as Sherlock's hands slide around John's waist, fingertips brushing against the waistband of his trousers. Sherlock's lips press against his earlobe, his teeth nibbling on the skin.

John lets out a deep breath, and his head leans back to rest against Sherlock's shoulder, and the detective notices that the blonde's eyes are closed, his whole face relaxed as he enjoys Sherlock's ministrations. The detective releases John's earlobe, lips pressing soft kisses down John's neck, shifting his hips slightly against John's arse as his fingers dip lower on John's front.

His tongue laps at a spot of skin under John's jawline, and John's whole body is leaning back against Sherlock. The detective can practically feel John's legs quivering against his own. Sherlock's lips pull some of John's skin into his own mouth, suckling on the skin, his tongue lapping at the skin, creating soft and wet noises that fill his ears. His fingers slide lower, over the front of John's trousers, pressing against the hardness he finds there and eliciting a whimper from John's lips.

The detective smirks, releasing John's skin with his lips and sliding his hands back up his body, before using his hands to turn John around so that they were facing each other. The blonde's eyes blink open in a bit of a daze, and there's frown on his face – one that's questioning why the other stopped. Sherlock smirks, eyes lingering on the very satisfying purple mark on John's neck. Yes, that's good. It'll tell everyone tonight that John belongs to Sherlock, and that tonight the blonde is coming home with the detective.

His eyes gleam. “Alright, ready to go?” And he steps away from John, turning around and striding towards the door. His fingers tighten the red scarf around his neck and he glances back at John – who’s standing there looking like he wants nothing more than to take a cold shower.

“John?” He says, smirking through the question, more than satisfied to be able to have such an effect on the blonde. John shakes himself, and his fingers pick up his cane before he limps over to Sherlock.

“Prick.” John mutters before striding past Sherlock and heading down the stairs. The detective chuckles and flicks the lights in the flat off.

After a very silent twenty minute cab ride (where John had been clenching and unclenching his fists the whole time, taking deep breaths and averting his gaze from the detective) the two arrive at the club, and Sherlock slides out of the cab without paying; once again leaving the cab fare to John to pay.

Sherlock takes in a deep breath of the evening air, starting to get chill as the sun hastily drops below the horizon line. His eyes light up on the entrance to the club – not super flashing but bright enough that it's a noticeable location from the street, the club's name up in neon lights on the building. Sherlock glances back at John as the man hobbles over to him and the cab drives away.

“Ready to do some sleuthing?” Sherlock asks, winking as his fingers twirl a strand of hair around his finger, rather enjoying the long hair from the wig.

John rolls his eyes at Sherlock. “Really, do I have much of a choice?” He asks, leaning on his cane. His eyes glance doubtfully at the sign for the club, and Sherlock can practically feel the awkward vibes rolling off of the blonde.

“Hey,” He says softly, his fingers gently slipping around John's free wrist, squeezing slightly. “Just stick with me and you'll be fine.”

“It's sticking with you that has me most worried.” John mutters, shaking his head, causing Sherlock to chuckle and pull John towards the doors of the club.

They push through into the building with no trouble from the security guards after Sherlock flirts with them a bit, biting his lower lip seductively and slipping some notes slyly into his hand. Anyone that says Sherlock Holmes doesn't know how to bribe is off his or her rocker. Inside, neon lights flash over the faces of bodies thrumming against each other in the club, swaying and grinding to the strong beat of the drums coming from the music that deafens nearly everything else.

Sherlock grins, and he even manages to hear John groan over to music. The detective's fingers slip from the doctor’s wrist, and intertwine their fingers together, pulling the man towards the dance floor.

“Come on John,” Sherlock yells to have himself heard, pulling the man close up against his body as the slide right in with the rest of the crowd. “Lose yourself a little!”

Sherlock throws his head back to the beat, rolling his neck and exposing the pale skin of his neck, his long hair sliding off his shoulders and dripping down his back like a waterfall of curls. His knees bend with the music, his body swaying back and forth, and his shoulders rising and drooping as he slides into a comfortable pattern. His fingers release John's wrists, and he slides his hands up his body, up his sides and caressing his skin as his fingers slide up his neck and into his hair, tossing the curls around as if they were real. Blue eyes close to the rest of the club as his hips sway back and forth, close to John and still feeling another back pressed against his in the crowd of people, losing himself for a moment in the dance.

His eyes open up on John's face, who's staring at him in a bit of a daze – standing still in the midst of a crowd busy jumping and swaying and dancing to the wild beat of the music. Sherlock slides closer to John, hands slipping around the doctor's waist, and grinding his hips against the blonde's. His head ducks down to John's ears again. “Come on, loosen up a little bit. We're trying to blend in.” He licks John's ear again – just because he can't resist tasting the blonde again.

It takes John a moment, but his hands eventually move to wrap around Sherlock's neck, pulling himself against the detective. Sherlock smirks down into John's eyes, heat in his eyes as his finger slide around John's waist, dipping down to brush against his arse as he grinds their hips together to match the rhythm of the song. His skin feels hot, and his lips part as he pants for breath, feeling a slight sweat start to break out on his forehead as he and John grind against each other, the music flowing through them like an energy shot.

Sherlock presses his chest close to John's, and he feels the doctor's fingers threading through his hair, gripping at his head and pulling him closer. He lets out a soft moan at the touch, feeling a hardness start to creep up in John's trousers again. His fingers slip down further, gripping John's arse and getting a gasp in response – but the doctor slides closer at the touch, their bodies flush against each other, practically one entity as they dance in the club, the air heavy with heat, sweat and the subtle scent of sex. Although that might just be because Sherlock is so close against John.

“There.” Sherlock mutters quietly into John's ear, grabbing his hands from out of his hair and dragging John out of the dancing crowd and over to the bar. Once glance at John once Sherlock has him seated down on one of the chairs instantly tells Sherlock that not only was his date hot and bothered from the dance – but that he had _liked_ it. The detective smirks.

“Two shots of tequila over here!” Sherlock cries out at the bartender, who nods his head, his own fingers tapping against the bar in beat to the music.

Beside him, John licks his lips, and his eyes seem to rest on Sherlock's lips for longer than entirely necessary in order to be platonic. “So, um, what now?” He asks, shifting his weight in the seat, fingers shifting about his trousers to try and hide his arousal from Sherlock. Ha. Good luck doing that John.

Sherlock leans in close to John so he can drop his voice and still allow the man to hear him. “Don't be obvious about it, but look to your left, towards the back of the club. Recognize anyone?”

John blinks, and then turns in his seat, stretching out his back – but Sherlock watches as those blue eyes slide in the direction he'd informed the blonde of, lighting onto the grizzled face from the photograph he'd shown John earlier. Harvey Dustin McFarland. Gotcha.

“What do we do?” John asks as he turns back to Sherlock, his eyes light up, and Sherlock can practically see the excitement humming off of his skin. He smirks as the bartender returns with their shots, and the detective drowns his in one gulp. Mhm, not bad.

Perhaps this is what John needs. Sherlock tilts his head slightly at the blonde. Psychosomatic limp. Wounded in action. Perhaps adjusting to this mundane sort of life just isn't working for John, and he needs a kick of excitement. Well, Sherlock can cover that. And sweat can be guaranteed.

Sherlock's eyes watch as their man ducks back into through a doorway in the back, surely leading through to the bathrooms and other back rooms of the club. He smirks at John, shimming his hips slightly. “You, are going to drink that shot, and then we, are going to follow him. Try and corner him and get some information out of him. You'll follow my lead of course.”

He watches as John tilts his head, thinking about this option for a moment. But only a mere moment, because then John's fingers wrap around the shot glass, and he drowns the drink, before rising to his feet. “Let's go.”

Sherlock grins as his fingers slip into John's hand, pulling the blonde through the crowd of dancing people, bodies dancing up against them to the beat, but the detective finally manages to pull John towards the back of the club. With one quick glance around to make sure that no one is watching them, Sherlock and John slip through the door.

Inside, Sherlock's eyes make quick work of their surroundings. Hallway to their right, which leads to the bathrooms, and then a hallway to their right that ends in a door that says _Faculty Members Only_. Well, that looks the most promising.

“We're going to go in there.” Sherlock jerks his head towards the door on their right, watching the blonde look down at the door. “You'll follow my lead, yes? Okay, let's –”

He pauses in the middle of the sentence, his ears picking up the sound of a lock being undone now that the music of the club was a dull roar behind the closed door behind them. Sherlock grabs John and pushes him up against the wall; noting the shock in his eyes before Sherlock whispers, “Go with it.”

And then Sherlock's lips are on John's, and he's pressing his body flush against the doctor's, fingers sliding down his sides and curling around his arse. Instantly, the blonde wraps his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, fingers curling into Sherlock's fake hair and tugging him closer. For a moment, when John pushes his lips hard up against Sherlock's and bucks their hips together, the doctor's tongue being the first to part their lips and slide their tongues together – Sherlock’s is taken off guard. Whoa.

Now there are two reasons for such a reaction – either John is really good at acting, or he wants Sherlock as badly as Sherlock wants to take John. And the detective is hoping for the latter.

He presses up against the blonde, moaning into his mouth and sliding their tongues together, telling John with his movements that he shouldn't think this is innocent. His teeth dig into John's lower lip, causing the blonde to whimper. Oh, John, he'll sink his teeth right into every inch of the ex army doctor’s body. Because while there might be no one home inside of his chest, his hands will make up for it. And his eyes and mouth agree that he'll be taking John home with him tonight.

Sherlock's hands grip John's arse a bit tighter, and their tongues roll around in a mock fight as Sherlock hears the sound of someone chuckling.

“Ya gotta love how horny some o’ these cunts are. Practically beggin’ to be fucked.”

“Yeah, well, don't watch. Boss'll get mad if ya masturbate to guests again.”

The first voice grumbles, and then there's the sound of a door opening and closing, and the voices are gone. Sherlock instantly removes his hands from John, breaking their lips apart and taking a step back. He presses his body flush against the door they came through, opening it a crack to catch a glimpse of the club. Good, no one looking to come in.

He turns back around to glance at John – who is still leaning up against the wall with a rather obvious problem in his trousers, and red lipstick smeared against his lips. Sherlock smirks and jerks his head towards their right. “Come on, let's go.” He strides towards the door and drops on his knees to examine the lock.

“You know, I really can't decide if you're just an extraordinarily weird human being, or if you're some kind of machine.” He hears John's voice behind him, and Sherlock chuckles. “Well, I guess that leaves you staring at something that's somewhere in-between.” His fingers wrap around the knob of the door, and he pushes the plank of wood open before turning his head to smirk up at John.

“After you.” Sherlock says, rising to his feet, his eyes gleaming brightly over at John. The other lets out a huff of breath and strides past the detective, but Sherlock catches the smile forming on John's lips.

Sherlock closes the door behind them, and his eyes flicker over the hall they find themselves in, his mind moving to plot their next move. “This way.” He murmurs to John, turning and striding down the hall, keeping his body pressed close against the wall. His ears pick up the sound of laughter, and he holds up his hand to John as they approach a corner.

He holds up one finger to John, letting out a huff of breath as he slides a hand down his shirt, plucking a small mirror from the confines of where he'd stuffed the bra he was wearing. Useful inventions bras are. Carefully, Sherlock holds up the mirror, peering into it to gaze behind them at what's going on behind the corner.

The mirror reveals that the corridor opens up into a room, and there's a grand table set up, men seated in chairs going all around. On the table are cards and chips, and piles of money. Gambling. How boringly typical. Sherlock has to force himself not to sigh in disappointment. Well that's hatefully mundane. But his eyes continue to flicker around the characters at the table. Seven men, all of unassuming nature, but most likely a criminal of one kind of another. Not Sherlock's business currently. Right now, the detective just as eyes for the balding white man on the end.

Sherlock stuffs the mirror back into his shirt, and he glances over at John. “Alright,” He starts, his voice dropped into a lower whisper. “Back down this hallway, I don't know if you noticed, but there's a closet. You are going to go there, and hide there. I'm going to get Mr. McFarland to leave the room with me, and I'll meet you there. We'll question him there, do you understand?”

John raises an eyebrow, looking a bit uncertain. “How are you going to get him to follow you?”

Sherlock simply chuckles, and his fingers slide up his sides, pushing out his chest slightly to emphasize his fake rack. “I'm going to use some equipment that the CIA doesn’t give out to its members.”

John rolls his eyes and lets out a breath. “Right, well, I'll meet you there.” He pauses, biting his lower lip. “Be careful, okay?” And before Sherlock can answer, John pulls his head down for a quick kiss – and then the blonde is gone walking down the hall.

The detective is momentarily surprised – and then he smirks. Oh, John Watson, you're really in for it when they return to the flat.

He takes his mirror out again, applying a bit more lipstick to his lips so he doesn't look so ruffled from his snog with John earlier. Sherlock rolls his head around, shakes his head a bit, and then slips into character as he turns around the corner.

One of the men notices him instantly, and gives a low whistle. Sherlock bobs and weaves as he walks, imitating a drunken gait. He notices eyes on him, and he raises a hand to his mouth, giggling lightly, throwing his voice to imitate a higher pitch. “Oh dear me, I seem to have gotten a bit lost.” Sherlock rather prides himself on being able to disguise himself, and his ability to alter the tone of his voice is as helpful as always.

“Hey, she's not supposed to be here!” One of the men cries, a frown on his face and wrinkles appearing in his forehead as his eyebrows pushed together.

“Oh, let her be dude. She's pissed.” One of the other men rolls his eyes, and takes a few chips to throw in the middle.

Sherlock giggles again, and hiccups, tilting his walk towards McFarland, whose eyes have lit up a bit when he realizes that Sherlock is walking towards him.

“Ooof!” Sherlock giggles, pretending to trip and land in McFarland's lap – rather gracefully actually. His old gymnastics teacher might have congratulated him on that. Actually.... given the context, she might have been a bit horrified. He giggles again, biting his lower lip. “Well, hi there handsome.”

“Uhh...” The man's eyes wander down Sherlock's body, and Sherlock can feel the obvious sign of the man's arousal against his thigh. A couple of the other men chuckle, but they seem to continue going on with their game and ignoring him. Good.

“You know,” Sherlock shakes his shoulders slightly, leaning closer against the man, his lips against the man's ear, pressing against rough skin, and his tongue licking at his grizzled face. “I am _soooo_ horny right now. You wanna come sneak into the bathroom with me?” Sherlock's fingers slide down McFarland's body, brushing against his crotch. “I bet you've got a really big dick for a desperate girl.”

McFarland swallows loudly, his eyes a bit wide. “Oh, um, I dunno...” Sherlock leans back slightly, pouring his lips at the man, and shifting his weight over McFarland's crotch. “Please?” Sherlock begs, his voice high and eager. When McFarland doesn't answer, Sherlock swoops down and presses their lips against each other, using his tongue to separate McFarland's lips and slide their tongues together. He gets a moan from McFarland, whose hands are instantly gripping Sherlock's sides and his arse, squeezing and needy and desperate. He tastes like bourbon and shrimp in Sherlock's mouth – and it's not nearly as pleasing as kissing John, but it's effective when McFarland pulls their lips apart and looks at Sherlock with lust in his eyes.

“I'll see you boys later.” McFarland informs the rest of the men before he pushes Sherlock off his lap, before grabbing his hand and starting to tug him out of the room. They leave with a few catcalls behind them, various cries of 'get some', 'take pictures', or 'you fuck that whore' following them.

Eventually Sherlock takes the lead, pulling McFarland along and smiling seductively at him, the man's tongue practically hanging out in want and desire. He pulls the man close towards the closet, and he giggles again, pulling McFarland flush against his own body. “I can't wait. Take me right here.”

“Whatever you say honey.” McFarland mutters, his voice eager as his move suddenly on Sherlock's and hands moving to roughly grasp at Sherlock's dress, trying to tear it off. Sherlock's hand grasps the doorknob, and yanks the door open, and the two of them fall onto the floor of the closet.

And the next second McFarland's hands are off of him, and Sherlock hears a gasp of pain. He blinks his eyes open to see John holding McFarland by the collar of his shirt and pushing him hard against he door, holding the end of a gun underneath his chin. Blue eyes turn on Sherlock, worried and searching the detective's face. “Sherlock, you alright?”

Sherlock would have been touched by his caring if they weren't about to start an interrogation.

“Fine.” He returns curtly, pushing himself up so that he's standing. The detective doesn't have time to wonder where John got the gun – he didn't have any in his house. But, hell, it was pretty sexy John holding a gun, and it was keeping McFarland quiet.

“So, you tell us what we need to know, and I'll make sure my associate doesn't blow your brains out of your skull.” The man laughs at Sherlock's words, shaking his head. “Listen mate, you don't have to force me to talk. I've got free will; I'll talk on my own. Just get this gun away from my face.”

John glances over at Sherlock, and the detective gives him a slight nod. What's the man going to do? John is standing between him and the door, and McFarland seems to be eyeing the gun pretty warily. Sherlock has a moment of pride for John being so insightful as to bring a gun. He'll have to figure out where the blonde got it later.

John takes a step back, releasing McFarland, and the man shakes himself, righting the position of his clothes. “Do you know who George R. Stevens is?” Sherlock asks, his eyes stuck on McFarland's, his eyes flickering all over his face.

“Course I know who he is.” McFarland answers, sticking his hands into his pockets and leaning up against the wall. “I killed him. Serves him right too, going against orders like that. Stupid bitch.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, a bit surprised by the man's compliance. Surely McFarland knew as well as Sherlock that there was no silencer on John's gun, and if he fired it, people would be swarming around this closet. Of course, no one said John couldn't kill him first.

“What orders?” John asks, his fingers still tightly gripping his gun, even though he's not pointing it at the man.

“Simple observation orders. George was a mole. Not much good for anything else really, that bloke.” McFarland snorts, rolling his eyes. “Really, he was one of the stupidest men I've ever come across in my life. Watching was all that we has good for.”

“Why watch Mary though? Why her?” John asks, his voice a bit more sharp, ordering the man to speak, and Sherlock catches a glimpse of the military man inside of John Watson. And Sherlock likes it enough that he doesn't stop or intervene in the man's actions.

McFarland smiles. It's a great big grin that stretches across his face and reveals yellowing teeth. “You still don't get it, do you.... John Watson?” John starts a bit at the sound of his name slipping from those slimy lips, but Sherlock isn't as surprised. If George Stevens had been spying on Mary, it's only obvious that he would have included information on John as well. McFarland was obviously Steven's higher up, and reported him. Which is why McFarland would have been the one to take him out when the bloke messed up and killed Mary.

“We weren't just watching _her_.” McFarland says, and his voice is soft, the smile on his face hiding some deep, dark secret. “We're watching everyone. All the time. We know what goes on in the moments that you believe no one is watching. We're like a web. A spider's web. Just all playing out our own little dance.”

“Then who's your spider?” Sherlock asks quietly. “Who's the man who knows how to make every single one of your little strings dance?”           

McFarland leans his head back and laughs. “Oh, there's something to be said about this life.” His eyes rest on Sherlock's. “It's exciting. The danger, the thrill of doing something against the law. The chance of getting caught. It's all so.... intoxicating.” His teeth bite down, and Sherlock tilts his head, his eyes narrowing as McFarland starts laughing. “But sometimes you just get tired of all the running.” And then Sherlock realizes what he's doing.

“John!” Sherlock cries out, and the doctor is already on it, pushing McFarland and trying to wrestle him to the ground to do something about the cyanide pill McFarland is trying to swallow down.

McFarland continues to laugh, his lips wide in a grin with John all over him. Those dull blue eyes lock onto Sherlock's, and he hears one word leave the man's mouth. “Moriarty.”

John seems to freeze at the word, which gives McFarland time to swallow the pill, and a moment later he's frothing at the mouth. Sherlock swears under his breath in disgust, and pulls a handkerchief from under his shirt, quickly wiping down the inside of the closet where either his or John's hands might have touched, quickly wiping away any fingerprints they might have left.

“Come on, let's get out of here.” Sherlock mutters, grabbing John's hand and using the handkerchief to cover the knob of the door to push the door open and let the two of them out, leaving the dead man in the closet. Sherlock' glances up and down the hall, tugging John along with him as they quickly leave the Faculty Members hall, sliding quickly back into the club with its loud music and dancing bodies, before both of them slip out of the club and practically fall into a cab in their haste to just get out of there before they were caught.

“What was that?” Sherlock asks John once they're finally in the cab and on the way back to Baker Street. "You could have stopped him! He was just giving information out – why did you freeze up?”

“Because I know who Moriarty is.” John whispers softly, looking a bit shell-shocked. Sherlock's eyebrows reach for his forehead, and he watches as John slowly shakes his head. “But no....no.... he couldn't have done those things. Seb always says he's quirky, but he's not the criminal type...”

John trails off and falls silent. Sherlock gets the feeling that he won't be getting the answer out of John for a while. The two lapse into silence as the cab takes them back to the flat, the world flashing by them as they go.

Sherlock sighs heavily and slides the wig off his head, running his fingers through his curls and scratching at his scalp. God, that wig got itchy after a while. He takes out a Kleenex from in his shirt, and uses it to wipe all the lipstick off of his face. He lets out another breath and leans his head back against the seat, closing his eyes for a moment.

The moment his eyes are closed, images and words begin assaulting his brain, bouncing around inside his skull and drowning out his surroundings.

 

_“You're gorgeous, you know that right?”_

_“Dominick? Is that you? Why're you calling me at three in the morning? I thought you preferred to text?”_

_“How about to tell me why you’re awake at three in the morning?”_

_“Did you want something?”_

_“Look outside your window.”_

_. . ._

_“Do you think standing at the bottom of my flat with a dozen roses in your hands will make me forgive you?”_

_“Well, if that fails I've got a jar of eyeballs sitting in my car.”_

_“Come on up, you idiot.”_

_Fingers brushed against his sides, caused his skin to shiver with the cool touch. Lips trailed kisses down his neck, soft and slow, every touch of skin treasured. Sherlock's fingers slid up into red curls, and his eyes slipped shut as he let out a breathy sigh. Oh, god, please, don't stop._

_“What're you up to?” There was a yawn in his ears before long arms wrapped around his neck, and the sleepy police officer held him close. Sherlock tilted his head and smiled. “You look good wearing my robe.” Dominick smacked his arm lightly – nowhere near hard enough to actually hurt. “That doesn't answer my question idiot.” The detective chuckled, and their lips folded together in a sleepy and content morning kiss._

_“Sherlock, it's okay.” Fingers slipped through his own, and Sherlock turned away from the man, trying to hide the tears that spilled down his cheeks. “It's okay to be upset.” An arm wrapped around his shoulders, pulled the detective close against the redhead's chest. Sherlock curled into him, his head on Dominick’s chest as he cried. Soothing fingers travelled down his back, and soft lips kissed the crown of his head. “It's okay Sherlock.” The words were soft and full of love and caring. “I'm going to help you get better. I promise.”_

_“Sherlock! Where are we going?” Dominick laughed, a grin plastered across his face as the detective tightened his grip on the redhead's hand. “Just follow me!” Sherlock cried back, and smiled as the two raced down the sidewalks of London, ran and pushed past other pedestrians in their way. “I've been following you all day though!”_

_Sherlock stopped in front of a park bench, turned to face Dominick, and still held his hand. “Alright, do you remember this place?” Dominick glanced around him, clearly weary from the day of running about town with no cell phones and nothing else to do but follow a mad man in a blue scarf. He shook his head and turned his eyes back to Sherlock. “No, I don't remember this place. Don't think I've ever been here before actually.” Dominick tilted his head at Sherlock, and rested his free hand on his hip. “Tell me then, what's special about this place? We've been to the spot we first met, we've been to the spot of our first date, where I gave you your first bloody nose, where we kissed for the first time – what should I be remembering about this place?”_

_The detective smiled, and slipped a hand into his pocket. “It's not about what you should remember about this place. It's what you're going to remember.” Sherlock smiled softly at his redhead and took a deep breath, before he got down on one knee._

 

No. Sherlock's eyes snap open, and he shoves the memories back into the chest Sherlock had them locked in. No, no, no, he is _not_ reliving that. No.

The cab pulls up to a stop, and Sherlock is instantly out of the cab, slamming the door shut behind him. He takes deep breaths of the cold air, trying to calm himself down. No, Sherlock, it's not your fault. It's not your fault. None of it was your fault. Calm down.

 

_“It's okay Sherlock. I'm going to help you. I promise.”_

 

Sherlock snaps open the door to the building, his hands tightening into fists. He storms up the stairs, his breathing hard and his teeth gritted. The detective kicks off his heels, not really caring where they land, before he walks into the kitchen, moving to make a cup of tea – but then he pauses and decides that tea isn't really strong enough, and he grabs bottle of wine. He quickly uncorks the bottle, lifts it to his lips and chugs some of it.

He licks his lower lip, placing the bottle down on the kitchen counter amongst a stack of apples. His fingers clumsily shake as he yanks open a drawer in the kitchen, grabbing at a small bottle and popping two pills out of it before swallowing them down with another swish of wine. Sherlock manages to slam the pill bottle back into its drawer just as John walks into the living room.

The blonde raises an eyebrow at Sherlock. “Are you okay?”

Does he bloody look okay? That's what Sherlock wants to snap at the man; snap at the stupid army doctor for bringing the memories back, for forcing open that locked chest with a crowbar. And then Sherlock notices there's not a cane in sight.

“You're... you're walking without your cane.”

John glances down at himself, and his eyebrows lift in surprise – like he hadn't realized that he wasn't using his cane. “Oh. I um....” He laughs a bit, his lips splitting into a smile as he takes a few experimental steps forward. No limp. “Well,” John laughs again, raising his eyes to Sherlock's. “Psychosomatic limp.”

Sherlock tilts his head slightly to the blonde, fighting a smile that wants to worm its way onto his face. “Weren't you shot though?”

The army doctor chuckles softly, eyes still on Sherlock's as he answers. “Shoulder.”

Sherlock smiles, and he suddenly notices that John is much closer than he thought. He could reach his arm out and touch the doctor if he wanted. His eyes flicker down to John's lips, wet and shining under the kitchen lights, and his heartbeat is suddenly obnoxiously loud in his ear.

Their eyes meet again, and the next second they're on each other. Lips fold over each other, eager and needy, tasting of wine and tequila. Tongue slide together, wet and desperate. John's hands are hot on Sherlock's neck, pulling him closer and pressing their bodies together, moving closer, and scratching at skin, needing to be closer.

Fingers tangle into Sherlock's hair and he groans into John's mouth, his own fingers fumbling with John's bowtie, stripping the material off of him and dropping it on the floor before working at the buttons on his vest. John pushes Sherlock back, and he grunts as his back hits the wall, and then lips reattach and tongue slip through mouths, sliding together.

Hands slide from Sherlock's hair down his neck, sliding that stupid bag off Sherlock's shoulder that had seemed to superglue itself to Sherlock's arm for the night. The bag is on the floor, and John's fingers are sliding down the zipper on the back of Sherlock's dress, and Sherlock's fingers are ripping the vest from John's body and frantically tearing at his shirt, needing to be closer.

The dress falls from his body with his bra (having been tugged open in John’s haste to unzip the dress), and John breaks their lips apart for a moment, just to let those blue eyes gaze hungrily upon Sherlock's body. Doctor's fingers quickly pull the dress shirt over his head, dropping it on the floor before he undoes his trousers, stepping out of the material at the same time as he steps closer to Sherlock again, pressing the detective back up against the wall and letting warm fingers trace all over cool skin. Fingernails scratch down Sherlock's back in long rows, eliciting moans from the detective's mouth, pushing back against the doctor for dominance.

Somehow, John manages to tug Sherlock out of his leggings, and the two have migrated to Sherlock's bedroom, pulling their pants off as they climb into bed. John smirks at Sherlock's red pants, crawling towards the man to bite at his lower lip, clearly enjoying the matching colours. Sherlock slips his tongue against John's lips, fingers pulling the man closer onto his duvet, before flipping the man over onto the bed, straddling him and attacking the man with his lips, receiving responding blows of scratches down his back.

Sherlock pants against John's lips, sliding their hips together, a hand moving down to grab both of their cocks with his hand and stroke them together, resulting in a loud moan from John, and desperate cries for Sherlock to just fuck him already. The detective strokes them both a while longer, his body shuddering with the pleasure as his lips kiss down John's neck, nibbling and biting at the skin as he licks and sucks his way to purple blossoms over John's neck and chest.

His hands leave their cocks for a moment, both of them thrusting their hips together to get friction, _any_ friction, because they need it, they're desperate, and they're both dying for this, been driving them both crazy since they met up again three days ago.

Sherlock's fingers drag a condom and the lube out of his bedside drawer, still panting for breath against John's skin before their lips meet in another hot and steamy kiss, sweat lining their skin as they thrust against each other. His separate from John's for a moment to rip open the condom, slipping it onto himself before he coats his fingers in lube, the stuff practically dripping from his hand as his fingers trace down John's body, circling around his arsehole.

John's legs spread apart wider, and the blonde nods his head, murmuring soft words to Sherlock to just please, please just take him, he needs Sherlock so desperately. The detective slips a finger inside of John. With every moan he laps up from John because of every stroke of his finger, it matters less and less that John wants him out of anger at Mary, or that Sherlock wants him as a desperation to get Dominick out of his head, or that they're both high off of endorphins from the chase and escape, or that they're both broken and wandering around alone in the word.

No, as Sherlock slips a second, and then a third finger inside of John, and hears those sweat moans filling the room along with the scent of sweat and sex, none of it matters. Nothing matters but the feel of John's skin beneath him as he slides his fingers out of John and slides in his cock instead. Nothing matters but that primal and raw need to just thrust, thrust, thrust, and hear John's cries beneath him, and his own moans and needs as their hands scrape down each other's bodies before they're both screaming and falling apart as they climax together, Sherlock's hand leading John along as they both spill over, floating up into orgasmic bliss.

Sherlock consciously focuses on the world again after he's already gotten up and disposed of the condom, after he's gotten a cloth from the bathroom and cleaned them both up, after John has softly kissed his lips and told him how wonderful he was. John is fast asleep under Sherlock's duvet, and the detective is staring up at the celling, a cigarette between his fingers and smoke trailing lazily from his mouth.

He lifts the fag to his lips, taking in a deep breath before letting a rush of smoke escape his lips. For once, he can manage to lie there and just not think. Sherlock doesn't think about the man beside him, or think about the wreck that is his life, or about Dominick, or about how this is the first time he's had someone in his bed in nearly two years. He just takes another inhalation of his cigarette and stares up at the ceiling.

Sherlock stays that way for hours, finishing off one, two, three cigarettes before he finally pushes himself out of the bed and leaves the room.


	5. Zzzzz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zzzzz with Lyrics: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=92rm6sOXBqI

John blinks, letting out a rough breath as he stares at the ceiling. Mary's sister is moving about in the room beside his, still wide-awake even though it's the middle of the night. The doctor rolls over in his bed, trying to find a comfortable position for him to sleep in, but the blissful release continues to evade him.

It's been three weeks since John woke up alone in an unfamiliar bed. He'd stretched his arms out and smiled to himself, smelt the smoke in the room that reminded him of the taste of Sherlock's mouth all those years ago. But when he had finally moved himself out of the room, took a blue robe hung over the end of the bed to wrap around himself – the rest of the flat had been completely empty. Sherlock's shoes were gone, as were his scarf and his coat that he wore when he showed up at the crime scene of Mary's house before.

So John had searched through the fridge, looked for something to eat and not really thinking much of it. He'd slept in a bit (it was nine in the morning, or something close to it), so the detective probably just woke up and went for a walk somewhere. But after he pushed aside a few gross bowls of human body parts (fingers and toes soaking in some sort of liquid, and a jar of eyeballs, all with green irises) in the fridge to find the milk for his cereal (that was a bit odd, he'd have to ask Sherlock about that later), and sat around Sherlock's flat for over an hour, a sinking feeling found its way into his stomach.

John flips over in his bed, his fingers reaching for his phone. He needs to look through the messages he has sent Sherlock – maybe the bloke has replied, and John simply hasn’t noticed.

(3 weeks ago) Hey, Sherlock, where'd you go? Woke up alone in your flat. Did you go to get breakfast or something? JW

(3 weeks ago) I ate some cereal from in your cupboard. It tastes a bit stale, but I couldn't find any other good food. You need to go shopping. JW

(3 weeks ago) Do I want to know why there are human body parts in the fridge? Namely, fingers, toes, and eyeballs? JW

(3 weeks ago) Right, well, I'm just going to leave now. Call or text me whenever you get these. JW

(18 days ago ago) I haven't had the courage to go talk to Jim about what McFarland said. Have you investigated it at all? JW

(18 days ago) There must be more than one person with the name Moriarty. I mean, it can't be that common of a name, can it? JW

(2 weeks ago) I'm not mad at you or anything, just so you know. I had a fantastic time that night. Wouldn't mind seeing you again. JW

(9 days ago) I talked to Molly today. She said she hasn't seen you since back when you came to investigate Mary's murder. Are you feeling okay? Do you need someone? JW

(6 days ago) You're not going to text me back, are you? Was that all I was? Just someone to entertain you for a day, and then a fuck buddy for a night? JW

(6 days ago) Because that's what you do, isn't it? Don't think I didn't notice the way that you and Molly both looked when we were all in Bart's together. You two obviously had sex. JW

(6 days ago) You're not the only one who can notice things Sherlock. JW

(3 days ago) I thought I saw you on the street today. But if it was you, you obviously saw me and avoided me. Thanks mate. Appreciate the distance. JW

(3 days ago) That was sarcasm, just so you know. JW

(Yesterday) I don't suppose your landlady was right when she said you were looking for a flatmate? Mary's sister is ready to kick me out of here, and I don't really have anywhere to go. JW

John sighs. Still no answer from Sherlock. To anything he has texted the detective. He rolls over in his bed, turning to lie on his stomach, fingers still gripping his phone tightly.

The doctor closes his eyes for a moment, but when he does that, he remembers the feel of Sherlock's hands on his skin; remember the desperate connection of their lips, and the way Sherlock's mouth had shaped those gorgeous moans as he slid in and out of him.

He pursers his lips together, squeezing his eyes together to try and force the memories from his mind. But it's no use. They stay there, and John lies in his bed with an obvious erection pressing against his mattress. The man sighs and presses his fingers against his temple.

He doesn't want to masturbate to the memory of Sherlock again. He's already done it at least a dozen times in the past three weeks, and it's getting a bit pathetic.

John holds up his phone to his eyes again, flicking through his contacts until he gets to Jamie's. He could text her right now. Course, she's probably asleep.

He's been texting the girl for the past two weeks, trying to get his mind off Sherlock. She is awfully nice, and she has offered more than once for John to come over to tea or coffee or something. John knows that the girl is interested in him, but if he goes over there he would feel too guilty using her as a means of getting Sherlock out of his mind.

Maybe... maybe if he jacks off to Sherlock's memory and then goes over to Jamie's, everything will be alright. Maybe...

John's fingers flick over his phone, bringing up a new text message and sending it off to Jamie.

Hey, I know it's late, but I can't sleep. Are you awake? JW

Almost instantly, John gets a response from his phone.

Sorry to disappoint you, I've been sleepwalking. You're chatting with a sleeping person. JB

John chuckles, a smile flitting across his face as the light from the screen brightens his dark room. He feels a bit like a teenager, lying awake in his dark bedroom while texting a girl, but it's not something he can control.

Do you think I could come over in a bit? I don't think I'm going to fall asleep anytime soon, and it's a bit lonely just sitting in my room. JW

Of course! I'll make some tea for us. You still have the address, right? JB

Yes ma'am. JW

John smiles as he puts his phone down on his bedside table. Alright, so he's going to go over to Jamie's. He tires to force his body out of bed, but his mind is stuck in the gutter with Sherlock's bright blue eyes as the main obsession. Oh, fuck, who the hell is it going to hurt if John masturbates to the memory one more time? If Jamie asks why it took him so long to get to her place, he'll just use some sort of corny line that will make her giggle.

He closes his eyes and lets out a deep breath. His mind brings up the memory of Sherlock's lips crashing against his own, of the taste of alcohol on his lips as fingers tugged at his clothing. John's hand slips down his body, gently prying his hard erection out from under the elastic of his sweats. His hand wraps around his shaft, trying to mimic the way that Sherlock's long fingers had wrapped around him, remembering the cool touch of the detective's hands and how they'd send a chill through his body.

His fingers slide up his cock, and his free hand reaches out towards his bedside table, taking out a small bottle of lube out of the top drawer. He takes his fingers off of his cock for a moment, squeezing the liquid into his hand before dropping the tube on the other side of his bed. John slides his wet fingers against his cock again, stifling a moan by biting his lower lip.

He remembers the way Sherlock's lips had explored his chest, the purple marks barely visible on his skin anymore – but god, he wants Sherlock's lips on his neck again, those teeth nibbling on his ear and licking at his skin. His fingers slide over his balls, gently fondling them with his eyes shut, imagining that Sherlock is there watching him, that knowing little smirk on his lips.

John imagines that Sherlock is sitting beside him, those long fingers stroking his lean cock as he watches John handle himself. In his ears, he can almost hear the detective tell him to push himself further, to cum for the detective and scream his name out – John bites his lower lip hard. His fingers push lower on his body, and his legs spread out as his wet fingers circle around his hole.

He pretends Sherlock's cool fingers are tracing along his bare chest, their chilled touch firing up John's body. The blonde slips a finger inside of himself, his other hand moving to take his cock, sliding his fingers up his shaft as his finger slides in and out of himself.

John groans lowly as a heat starts to build in his abdomen, and he slips a second finger inside of himself, fingers probing around for his prostrate as his other hand curls into more of a fist, yanking himself up and down, turning his breathing ragged as he searches for a quick release. His fingers brush against his prostrate, and his hips buck in response, his breath catching in his throat as his fist pumps a bit faster. He feels the heat in his body building, feeling so, so hot, panting as he builds himself up.

His whole body feels sticky against the duvet, and his fingers plunge back inside of him again and again, and he pretends they're Sherlock's cock, sliding hard into him, pounding him into his bed like the detective had done three weeks ago in his own bed. He feels the heat building, building, and he's about to fire off, but he imagines Sherlock's voice in his ear, his heated words ordering John to stop.

His hand releases his cock without finishing, and his fingers pause inside of his hole, and John whimpers, his body contorting in desperate need for the friction it was denied. He breaths hard, feeling the heat recede slightly, and he groans. God.

He pretends that Sherlock's lips are on his neck, kissing him up and down, before the detective tells him to keep going. To slowly stroke himself from base to head. John's fingers comply, curling around the base of his cock, and letting wet digits slide up his aching erection, providing a dull stimulus that wasn't near enough to get him over the top.

His fingers plunge back into his body when his imagined Sherlock voice tells him to, his fingers continuing their achingly slow stroke from top to bottom, his thumb brushing against his head on the way up, heat building up in his stomach again.

Just as he's about to topple over, he imagines Sherlock ordering him with a sharp bite to his throat to stop. His hand is gone from himself again, a louder whimper escaping from his lips. God, Jane could come in any second to see what he's doing to himself - one hand around his cock and fingers of the other up his arse, masturbating to a man he's slept with twice. And _fuck_ if that isn't hot. The idea that he might get caught. God, what if Sherlock caught him?

Nowhere near plausible, but the idea sends shivers up his back and makes his erection twitch without anything touching it. God, Sherlock's battering his bones. Masturbating to one of his favourite memories now. And thoughts of the detective haunting every other memory. God.

In his ear, he imagines Sherlock telling him to take himself. His fingers wrap around himself again, the slight touch making his body shudder with desire and need. Oh, god, he's close. He closes his eyes again, and he's drowning in the feelings and the memories, his fingers diving inside of himself as he pretends it's Sherlock's cock pounding into him and striking his prostrate hard enough to cause his hips to buck in need. His hand curls around his cock, stroking himself from base to tip, faster, faster, feeling the heat building in his abdomen again.

Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.

Bright blue eyes staring down at him.

Lips coated in ruby red lipstick, pressing hard against his and mixing their tongues together in the taste of tequila.

Hands ripping off his clothes, desperate to get at his skin.

That voice, deep and husky in his ear.

Sherlock's body, pressing right up against John's back as fingers slip his jacket on and lips tease at John's ear, urging him to get somewhere before abandoning the motions to leave John wanting more.

Grabbing him and pushing him up against the wall, feeling the man's erection pressing against his own.

Twirling his fingers around his curls and hearing the moans that leave Sherlock's mouth as a result of it.

Oh. _OH!_

John feels his balls tighten up before the heat overwhelms his body, and he falls apart in a sweet, sticky mess as his fingers brush against his prostrate again, and cum bursts forth from his cock in short spurts all over his sweats.

He lies there for a moment, his eyes closed as he savours the utter bliss in that moment. Up, down, spinning around, going all directions at once. God, he's lost, and he never wants to be found.

After a few moments, he slides his fingers out of himself, and his other hand slides away from his softening cock. He stays there a couple minutes longer, just breathing in, feeling his heart race and smelling the tangy scent of sweat and sex in his room. With his eyes closed, the bliss is almost enough to sing himself to sleep. After all, the memory was becoming one of his favourite melodies.

But his phone buzzes on his bedside table, and John glances over to see Jamie's name lit up on the device. He groans and pushes himself out of bed, stumbling into the adjoining bathroom to take a shower and clean himself up before he goes over to her house.

When he's showered and washed – and no longer smelling of sex, but smelling of the nice vanilla shampoo in his bathroom – John cleans up his bed and takes the soiled sweats and duvet to throw them in the wash. Thankfully, he doesn't hear any sounds of Jane wandering about the house, so that was a plus. After starting the washing machine, John grabs his shoes and his jacket, and slips out of the house. He doesn't bother leaving a note for Jane – he should be home by the time she wakes up. If not, well, she knows his number.

John walks down the sidewalk, heading towards the main street and inhaling the crisp night air. It feels cold in his lungs, but it was a nice pinch to wake up him a bit more. Even though his cold shower had helped shake the after effects of his little fantasy, there's nothing wrong with another cold slap of wind to the face. Now, he's done with Sherlock for the night – time to keep his thoughts on Jamie.

His fingers slip his phone out of his pocket, and he glances over her message. I'm not really asleep; I swear I'll be wearing semi-decent clothing. You don't need to be afraid, I won't bite. ;) JB

John chuckles, and quickly types out a new response as the sound of cars meets his ears and he's standing near the main road. I'm coming; I just had to find your address. Wrote it down on a paper, and it took me longer than I thought in order to find it. JW

He hails a cab after two or three tries (how is it that Sherlock could magically hail a cab with his fingers? Wait, John, no, stop thinking about him) and climbs in, directing the driver to the address of Jamie's apartment complex. John leans back against the seat, closing his eyes for a moment and enjoying the soft hum of the motor as they drive. His eyes open and dart to the window, taking in the star filled night sky. Really, it's beautiful. God, he couldn't bear to live anywhere but London. But searching for a flatmate is a lot harder than John thought. Not many people want an ex army doctor living with them.

Although, that is one of the funniest things. Ever since that night running around that club with Sherlock (at which John had forgotten his cane at the bar), the doctor hasn't felt his limp since. It really was like the excitement had cured him. And for that.... probably because of that... John just can’t get the man off of his mind.

The cab pulls up to the building, and John thanks him, quickly paying the man for the ride. He climbs out and makes his way into the building, taking the elevator up to the fourth floor to Jamie's apartment.

He knocks on the door, and smiles when her petite face answers the door. She smiles up at him, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “N-nice to see you.” She stutters out, smiling as she focuses those chocolate brown eyes up on his. Jamie steps back, holding the door with one hand and gesturing for him to come inside. John smiles, and can't help but glance down her person.

Well, she was wearing semi-decent clothing; that was for sure. The skin of her pale legs is clearly visible from the extremely short black shorts she's wearing, and the skin looks like it would be smooth to the touch. She's wearing a baggy shirt, and it slips off one of her shoulders – letting John know that she's not wearing a bra under that shirt. A fact that he gets further evidence for when he notices the points of her nipples against the cloth of her white shirt. He swallows and runs a hand through his hair, stepping into the apartment.

Jamie closes the door behind him and he glances about as he enters the room. Obviously her living room. It's very neat and tidy, and there's a checkered couch next to a plain wooden table with two cups of tea set out on it. He smiles, his eyes sweeping the walls and admiring the pictures of various rock bands held up everywhere.

“You t-take your t-tea straight, don't you?” Jamie asks, walking past John and gently sitting down on her couch. “I wasn't s-sure, so I've got s-sugar and m-milk in the fridge if you w-want them.”

John chuckles, shaking his head. “No, I like my tea straight, thank you.” He sits down next to her on the couch, and gently takes one of the cups, bringing it to his lips and sipping at it. “Mhm.” He nods his head, swallowing and smiling at her. “It's really good.”

She blushes furiously, her petite nose scrunching up a bit. “I'm g-glad you like it. I was w-worried you wouldn't.” Jamie smiles up at him, and John notices how soft her skin looks, and just how attractive she looks with the blush gracing her cheeks. Her eyes are just so open and trusting – John just gets the feeling that she would tell him anything, and that she would trust him completely. She is the complete opposite from Sherlock, and it's insane how attracted John can be to them both.

The girl crosses her legs, and John takes another sip of his tea. They slide into a soft and easy conversation about how their days have been, and John tells her a cute story about how one of the nurses at the hospital had been proposed to a few days ago. Jamie clapped her hands at the story, giggling, and always looking up at John with those chocolate eyes.

She tells him about how her job has been going, how hilarious it is to watch the men stumble about Victoria's Secret with their girlfriends or wives, and how amusing it is when they get smacked for staring at things too long.

Eventually, the subject turns onto what was keeping John up so late. He glances away – not wanting to tell her that he's obsessing over a man with sharp cheekbones and an incredibly sexy intellect, so he goes for the second issue on his mind.

“My ex girlfriend was murdered a few weeks ago. I was living with her, but now that her sister has taken possession of the house, I have to move out. Only, I can't seem to find a place to live, and I really just can't bear to leave London.”

Jamie frowns, concern dripping from her features. “Oh, that's t-t-terrible. I'm s-sorry.” John shakes his head, giving her a small smile. “Hey, it's not your fault, don't worry about it.”

She gives him a small smile, and John notices that she slides a little closer to him on the couch. “I'd offer to let you s-s-stay here.... but my apartment only has one bedroom, and I'd feel t-terrible making you s-sleep on the couch.” He watches as she licks her lower lip, and edges a bit closer, placing her teacup down on the table beside John's empty cup. “Unless, you know... you-you'd be w-willing to sh-share?”

Jamie blinks her long eyelashes up at him, smiling with a gentle blush on her cheeks. Her thin fingers tuck a fallen strand of hair behind her ears. John smiles at her, and he watches as she leans closer, her eyes closing. He doesn't make a move to stop her as she leans close enough that their lips brush against each other.

The touch is soft and gentle, and ever so sweet. John feels her lean closer to him, and he feels her chest brush against his side as she leans closer. His breath catches for a moment - god, he hasn't been touched by a woman since before Mary died. His fingers slide to her waist, and Jamie takes that as the all clear to press up against him. She shifts her body, swinging her legs over John's and straddling his waist, her fingers sliding around his neck and shifting through his hair.

Her breasts press up against John's chest, soft as his fingers slide up her back, under her shirt and feeling at the soft skin. Jamie's tongue laps at John's lips, and he opens his mouth for her, letting their tongues slide together. She tastes sweet, like tea, and ever so feminine. His hands are hot on her warm skin, all soft skin and curves, ready to be molded by his touch.

Jamie's tongue slides against his, and John responds in kind as her hands slide into his hair and tug him closer to her. He can't help but groan into her mouth, pulling her closer to him. One of her hands leaves his hair and finds John's hand, moving his hand to slide up her body and press against her breast.

His fingers squeeze the soft skin, letting his digits brush against her nipple as he does so. He hears her gasp into her mouth, and the way she grinds her hips down on him tells him he's doing something right. Encouraged (and throwing everything to the wind), John shifts their bodies, gently pushing Jamie down so that she's lying down on the couch, and he's on top of her. His lips leave hers to trace down her neck, and her chest rises and falls heavily for him. John's eyes flicker up to her face, noting with a smirk how her eyes are closed and how she's enjoying it.

His fingers slip down her body and grab the ends of her shirt, gently sliding it up above her breasts to reveal them to him. Two soft white breasts, with cute little pink nipples greet his sight, and he takes his lips down her chest to press soft kisses against her chest, his tongue lapping out to lick at her nipple.

Suddenly, there's a whirring sound, and John feels his phone vibrating in his pocket. “Wh-what's that?” Jamie asks, her eyes opening and she tilts her head down at John, who flushes brightly at his ringtone. It's the sound of the TARDIS from Doctor Who. God, he's such a nerd. He should have turned it off.

“It's just my phone. Ignore it.” John answers, his lips back on her soft skin, licking and sucking at her nipples, urging them to perkiness. She groans as the whirring of his phone switches off, thrusting her chest out towards him, her fingers sliding back into his hair and tugging him forward. His tongue laps at her nipple, bringing his head back to look at the red nipple standing erect for him. He kisses across the valley between her lovely breasts, moving over to her other nipple to suckle his mouth around it, sucking gently.

His phone starts again, vibrating in his pocket and whirring loudly. John's tongue laps at Jamie's other nipple, and her pants keep her occupied from asking about her phone again. Even though he just masturbated about a half hour ago, John starts to feel himself getting awfully aroused (and he does pride himself on a rather quick recovery time of twenty to thirty minutes) by their actions.

Encouraged by the moans slipping out of Jamie's mouth, he slides his hand down the soft skin of her stomach as the noise of his phone dies away again.

His fingers brush against the waistline of her shorts; silently asking her permission while his mouth is occupied with licking her nipples. She responds by spreading her legs wider, one of her legs hooking around his waist for him. He smirks against her skin, and his fingers slide under her shorts to find that she's not wearing any panties underneath – and he feels his cock twitch under his trousers.

He slides his fingers down the little tuft of hair on her crotch, before sliding down to the wet slit that lies beneath. She moans out loudly as his fingers brush against her clit, and John circles his fingers around the little nub a few times for her, watching her squirm beneath his touch, her head thrown back as she enjoys his attention. Her hips buck slightly, and her fists tighten in John's hair, her chest heaving beneath him. With his fingers still circling that sensitive little nub, pressing hard on certain spots to gain louder moans from her, John starts kissing his way down her stomach.

John slides his fingers out of her shorts, causing her to whimper in response. He smiles, his eyes lighting up on her face as she looks down at him. The doctor slides down her body, his eyes stuck on hers as his fingers hook around her shorts, waiting for a moment before he pulls them down, waiting to see if she'll give him the okay.

She nods at him, her eyes dark with lust, and her breasts heaving out in the open air from where John had pulled her shirt over them. He smiles, and slides her shorts off, sliding them past long, thin legs before dropping them on the ground. His fingers slide up her legs – her legs that are ever so smooth to the touch. His eyes break off from hers, dropping down to her glistening wet pussy, all ready for him to lick out –

His phone buzzes again, and the room is filled with the whirring noise of the TARDIS yet again. John sighs, and Jamie lets out a chuckle. “C-come on John. It's probably important. I can w-wait.”

John gives her a soft smile, sitting up as he slips the phone out of his pocket – Sebastian is calling him. Confused at the late night call, John clicks the _Accept Call_ button and brings his phone to his ear. “Seb?”

_“John, oh my god, why weren't you picking up your phone? You have to come over right now! Oh my god, I'm worried sick, I don't know where he is or where he's gone, and he's not picking up his phone, and I think something might have happened to him John, there was blood on the carpet, and John, I'm so scared, please, you have to come help me!”_

“Whoa, whoa, Seb, slow down, I can't understand you when you speak that fast.” John frowns, feeling his erection die fast at the terror in Sebastian's voice. He's never heard the man so frightened before. Not even when they were in Afghanistan. Beside him, Jamie seems to realize that their little interaction is over, and she pulls her shirt down to cover her breasts, retrieving her shorts from the floor.

Over the line, John can hear Sebastian taking a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself. _“Jim and I were at his house, just chilling and watching TV and eating some popcorn, when I got this call from the government. Said they needed my help with some burglary occurring on the other side of London. So, of course, I had to go. Jim promised he'd stay home and wait for me, though he did threaten to eat all the popcorn.”_

Sebastian chuckles slightly, but John knows that the man is still a bit panicked. _“Well, I got there, and there was no robbery! Nothing was going on. It was a fake call. I was confused, and called my agency, but they said that no one from them had called me. So, I just drove back to Jim's, totally miffed about the whole situation and ready to just rant out to him about it.”_

John hears Sebastian swallow over the other end, before he takes in a few deep breaths. His lips dip further into a frown. He has a bad feeling about this. _“But, when I got back to Jim's, he wasn't anywhere to be found. The popcorn was still in the bowl, uneaten on the table. There was nothing out of order, except a few drops of blood on the carpet. John, I don't know what happened to him, and I'm scared it's something bad. He's not exactly a popular guy.”_

“It's alright Seb,” John assures the man through the phone. “Can you come and pick me up? I think I know where he might be.” He hears Sebastian take in a deep breath over the phone, and he imagines the man pacing about in his house, running his long fingers through his hair in worry. _“Um, yeah. Yeah, I can do that. Where are you?”_

John gives him the address, and then he hangs up the phone after making Sebastian promise to drive slowly and not recklessly endanger anyone by speeding over there. He sighs and slips his phone into his pocket, before turning to glance over at Jamie. “You know, I'm going to have to get back to you on the sharing a room deal.”

Jamie smiles slightly, leaning over to pick up her tea, taking a sip of the liquid. “That's f-fine. Go make s-sure your friend is okay.”

John nods his head, gives her an awkward smile, and then quickly slips out of the apartment, taking the elevator back down to the ground level to stand outside for Seb. He shuffles his feet in the cold, watching his breath pool in front of his face. It's getting colder outside. Before they know it, the whole ground will be covered in snow. God, Christmas is less than two months away. Will Harry want to see him for Christmas? Imagine how insufferable that would be.

He bristles, shaking his head. No, not going to think about his wacko sister right now.

Finally, Sebastian's familiar car pulls up at the curb, and John walks around the front of the car to climb into the passenger seat. Seb raises an eyebrow at him. “Johnny, it's two in the morning. What're you doing at Jamie's house?”

John glares at the man, taking his seatbelt and quickly hooking it up. “We were both awake and had nothing to do. So I came over for a chat.”

“Right.” Sebastian nods his head, rolling his eyes and clearly not believing the doctor as he starts the engine of the car up again. “So, where's your cane?” He asks as the car lurches forward back onto the road, starting to drive away.

“We're going to the address 221B Baker Street, you know where it is?” John asks, ignoring the question and looking out the window, avoiding a gaze that isn't even fixed upon him.

“Yes, I know where Baker Street is.” Sebastian chuckles, and points to his head with his eyes still on the road. “I have this entire city planned out in my head like a little map Johnny.”

John rolls his eyes and lets out a huff of breath. God, he prays that he's wrong. Of course, if he's right it means that they won't have to look long for Jim, but if he's right it means he's going to have to have a word or two to speak to Sherlock. No more hiding behind text messages.

“So who's SH?”

John glances over at Sebastian, who spares him a moment's glance before looking back to the road. His friend's jaw tightens, and his eyes flicker down to both of Seb's hands in the wheel, fingers gripping so tightly that his skin is turning a very pale white. “Come on John, if you don't talk about something, I am going to go crazy with worry.”

“Um,” John licks his lower lip, glancing away and taking in a deep breath. “SH stands for Sherlock Holmes. He's a....” He trails off, tilting his head slightly and pursing his lips together. How on earth does one even begin to explain Sherlock Holmes? “He's a detective. He showed up at my house when Mary was killed. I met him once before I joined the army.”

Sebastian nods his head slightly. “You slept with him.”

“What?!” John cries out, his eyes wide as he turns his body to look at Sebastian, his first instinct to deny the association. “No, god, of course not! I knew him for _one night_ six years ago. You know me; I wouldn't sleep with someone I just met! No, he's totally abrasive, and rude, and won't return any of my texts, and he keeps _eyeballs_ in his fridge! Can you believe that? Fucking eyeballs! No, no I didn't sleep with him. No, of course I didn't. Why would I?”

Sebastian snorts. “You know John, they teach you something when you learn how to torture men for information.” His eyes flicker over to John for the briefest second. “And you denied my question five times, as well as ranted about it.” Sebastian's lips tweak into the slightest smile before returning it their worried grimace. “You lied. You totally slept with him.”

John sighs heavily and runs his fingers through his hair. Honestly, there’s not much point in lying to Seb. He just knows. “Yeah, alright, I slept with him. Happy?” He glances out of the window. “Not that it matters. I don't think he's interested in me.  Hasn't returned any of my texts.”

Sebastian glances over at John, before he turns back to the road, spinning the wheel to turn the vehicle around a corner. “Now, that doesn't sound like the John Watson I know. The John Watson I know wouldn't have taken no for an answer. He would have marched straight up to this Sherlock Holmes, and told him what was what.” His lips tweak slightly. “And Mr. Holmes wouldn't be able to say no because you're just so devilishly handsome.”

John laughs and rolls his eyes, his lips turning upward into a smile. “Thanks Seb. You always do know what to say.” The other smiles, turning them around another corner. “Of course. I didn't put up with your arse for years in the military for nothing.”

There’s a moment of silence before Seb turns to glance over at John again. “So you like him? This, Sherlock?”

John blinks a few times. “Um,” He can feel his face turning red, and he doesn’t want to just flat out deny the question, because then Sebastian would simply use the same logic on him. “He’s, you know, fine. He has nice eyes,” Understatement. “And he’s a pretty good kisser,” Try bloody fantastic. “But I don’t…. _like him_ , like him, you know?”

The driver snorts, shaking his head and turning the car down Baker Street. “John, you’re not in primary school anymore. It’s alright to like someone.”

And with that, the conversation dies, leaving John to tuck away those thoughts for later. Sebastian licks his lower lip, his eyes darting about the street they're driving on. “Alright, now, you should tell me what to expect when we walk into this house, because I will just launch into full out Mama bear mode if you unleash me into that flat with no restrictions.”

John nods his head as Sebastian pulls the car up to a half in front of Sherlock's flat. “Well, um, just stay behind me and let me talk some reason into him.” Seb cuts the engine of the car and glances up at the flat. “This is Sherlock's place, isn't it?”

“You’re awfully bloody perceptive tonight, aren’t you?” John answers, pushing his door open and sliding outside into the cold air. God, it's two in the morning! This is utterly ridiculous. He runs a hand through his hair, waiting as Sebastian steps out of the car and join John.

The doctor takes a deep breath before walking over to the door, knocking on it a few sharp times. A moment later, the door opens, and Mrs. Hudson's soft face appears in front of him, smiling. “Oh, John dear, I was wondering if I was ever going to see you around here again. Oh,” She starts, opening the door a little wider and catching a glance of Sebastian. “You brought a friend?” Mrs. Hudson chuckles. “Well, Sherlock certainly has his hands full tonight, hasn't he?”

“Yes, um, Mrs. Hudson?” John asks, trying to catch her attention. “Is Sherlock in? Is he upstairs? Does he... does he have anyone else in?”

“Why yes dear, he does actually.” She smiles up at him. “A very nice young Irishman, I believe. I think they're having tea. Quite quiet tonight. Very nice on my poor ears, Sherlock does get rather noisy most nights.”

“Jim.” Sebastian says under his breath, and John has to grab his arm to keep him from dashing past the old woman and bounding up the stairs to snatch his boyfriend back. “Sorry Mrs. Hudson, do you mind if we go upstairs? We're having a bit of a conflict with Sherlock.”

“Of course dearie.” Mrs. Hudson answers, opening the door for the two of them. “Just keep it down, will you? I've got my niece and her kids over, and they're trying to sleep.”

“Will do.” John answers, his fingers still tight around Sebastian's arm as he drags the man inside the building, trying to keep him firm – like a dog on a leash. They climb the stairs to Sherlock's flat, and John's eyes instantly dark about.

He makes quick work of surveying the scene. Sherlock is sitting in his armchair, blue robe wrapped around his person, and a cup of tea in his hands. The main raises an eyebrow at John, tilting his head slightly. Across from Sherlock, there's a petite man sitting in the armchair opposite – although... he's not really sitting. More like, slumped over in the chair and forced to stay put. Forced to stay put by the handcuffs around his wrist.

“Jim!” Sebastian cries out, and instantly strides over to the dark haired man, anxiously prodding at his face, but the man is completely unconscious. There's a cut just above his eyebrow. Well – that explains the blood on the carpet that Seb was talking about.

“What the _fuck_ did you do to him?!” Seb screams, turning on Sherlock, his eyes bright and flush with anger. John leaps forward and grabs the man, yanking him away before he mauls off the face of the detective – who honestly could do with a little mauling; what with the way he's just sitting there like he doesn't realize that stealing people out of their homes in the middle of the night is a bad thing.

“Seb, calm down.” John says, holding him back. “Jim's just unconscious. Look, he's still breathing. It doesn't look like anything has happened to him. Besides, we promised Mrs. Hudson we'd be quiet, remember?” Sebastian curls and uncurls his fists, his jaw tightening as he glares at the detective, who simply raises an eyebrow at the man before he takes another sip of tea.

Sebastian throws John's arms off of him, and sits himself down beside Jim on the arm of the chair, his large hands picking up the other man's smaller hands, eyes flitting over the Irish face in concern. John's eyes turn to Sherlock's, and he stands with his hands on his hips. “Care to explain to me just what the _fuck_ you thought you were doing?”

“He was a clue. I needed to examine him.” Sherlock says, his voice monotone and professional, all business, and it curdles John's stomach to think of how that man's voice could change so drastically.

“Sherlock, don't you know it's not only _rude_ but _illegal_ to take people out of their homes in the middle of the night without their permission?” He gestures a hand to Sebastian, who has managed to calm down a bit now that he sees Jim is at least unharmed. “Do you realize that Sebastian is trained in torture by the British Government? He could have killed you if he wanted.”

“And yet here I am still breathing.” Sherlock answers, picking up a cigarette from where it rested on an ashtray on the table, before lifting the fag up to his lips to inhale before breathing out a trail of smoke.

John lets out a deep breath, clenching his fingers into fists, fingers trembling slightly as an after effect of the war. “Are you self destructive or something?” He asks, turning his eyes on the detective, trying to keep his voice down so he wouldn't disturb Mrs. Hudson's family. “The smoking, the alcohol, the _sex_ , and now this? I haven't even known you for that long and I know you're royally screwed up. But seriously Sherlock, kidnapping?”

“You heard McFarland.” Sherlock snaps back, his eyes narrowing at John. “Moriarty.” He takes another drag of his cigarette, and pushes himself to his feet, walking over to the wall of the flat – and then John notices the huge map of pictures and red string all over. He walks over to the detective, his eyes flickering all over the pictures. There are newspaper clippings, and photographs, and maps, and they're all connected at various points by red string.

“All these events John,” Sherlock gestures to the different elements upon the wall. “They're all connected by the ghost of a name. A shadow, just lurking behind the surface. Moriarty.”

The detective swallows, and John notices that his eyes linger on one of the newspaper clippings that seems to be in the centre of the mess. John's eyes follow his gaze, scanning the title. _BANK ROBBERY ENDS IN THE KILLING OF ONE OF LONDON'S FINEST._ There was a picture in the newspaper clipping of the bank that had been robbed, but no picture of the criminals, or the man killed. He has time to scan the words in the newspaper clipping, but there's no mention of a name, just vague references to one of London's police officers who had been at the bank at the time, and sacrificed himself to save an old woman who was about to be shot by the robbers.

Sherlock heaves in a deep breath, and turns around to face Jim. “He is the _only man_ in all of London with the name Moriarty. I _need_ to know how he connects to all of this.”

“And that couldn't wait until the morning?” John asks, frowning as he turns with Sherlock. “You can't just take people out of their homes Sherlock. Jim's a relatively nice guy. I'm sure he would have been more than willing to talk to you in the morning.”

“No, it couldn't have waited John, because I _need_ to know.” Sherlock snaps, his voice harsh as he huffs another puff of smoke, his robe whipping about him as he turns to face the doctor.

“Need to know – Sherlock, this isn't just some puzzle! We're dealing with a real human being.” His eyes dart over to Jim and Seb, but Jim is still unconscious, and Sebastian seems content to ignore the both of them for now. John turns his eyes back on Sherlock. “Why are you being so off the walls towards this?”

“Because I need to know why he died!” Sherlock shouts back, anger flashing momentarily in his eyes before he realizes what he's said. The moment John notices that flash in his eyes, it's like the detective's entire body just flicks an off switch. He sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose, taking another drag of his cigarette.

“Need to know why who died?” John asks, his voice soft and careful as he approaches Sherlock, gently touching his arm. The detective shies away from the touch, and drops down into his seat. He watches as nimble fingers pluck a bottle out of his pocket, before he snaps two pills into his hand and swallows them down. John raises an eyebrow. “Why're you taking medication?”

“Well, not because it's _yummy_.” Sherlock answers, sarcasm dripping from every word. The man slides the bottle away and sighs heavily, slinking down in his seat as he finishes off his cigarette. John holds out his hand to the darker haired man. “Can I have the key for the handcuffs please?”

Without a word, Sherlock's fingers slide into his robe, and he pulls out the key, handing it over to the doctor. “Thank you.” John murmurs before he heads over to Jim, carefully taking off the handcuffs. When the cold metal is removed from limp wrists, Sebastian picks the man up, and takes him over to the couch. There, Seb sits on one end and has Jim lying down on the length of the couch, his head on Sebastian's lap while Seb's fingers gently trace through the Irishman's hair.

John hands the key back to Sherlock, who silently takes it and slip it into his pocket before picking up his tea and taking a sip. The doctor licks his lower lip, and takes the chair Jim had been in, and pulls it close to the detective. “Why didn't reply to any of my texts?” He asks quietly, keeping his eyes focused on Sherlock. He's getting an answer out of this man, circumstances be damned. There isn't really anything they can do for Jim until he wakes up.

Sherlock's eyes glance away from John. “I don't do relationships John. I do sex. Sex is easy. Simple even. Messy, but simple. Pupils dilate, arteries constrict, core temperature rises, heart races, blood pressure skyrockets, respiration becomes rapid and shallow, the brain fires bursts of electrical impulses from nowhere to nowhere, and secretions spit out of every gland, and the muscles tense and spasm like you're lifting three times your body weight. It’s easy. Simple. Emotions aren’t. So, I'm just a bloke in need of sex, and out of fear of getting attached, I switch partners fairly regularly.” Blue eyes lift to his own. "You're a very nice man, and I liked having sex with you, so I cut it off."

Well, if that isn't the most backwards logic John has ever heard. He lets out a deep breath and nods his head. God, there must be something really wrong with Sherlock to think that that makes sense – let alone is healthy. No wonder half of the police force seemed to hate the man. John nods his head. He ought to just walk away. He ought to just leave London and make do with finding another flat somewhere else. To just forget all about Sherlock Holmes and those eyeballs in the fridge, and those sharp cheekbones, and the tender way Sherlock's lips had folded against his own that first time six years ago.

Who's he kidding? He's been unable to get Sherlock out of his mind for the past three weeks. There were times when he felt like fading to black inside because he was just yearning to be back in the detective's arms, or to just _know_ what was going on inside of that crazy mind of his.

“Ugh,” John glances over at the new voice, soft and groaning as Jim raises a hand to his head, fingers tenderly brushing against the cut above his elbow. The man's eyes blink open to reveal dark brown depths. He barely blinks for a moment before he scrambles to his feet, grabbing the nearest thing - which thankfully happens to be a pillow – and throws it at Sherlock. “Keep him away from me!” Jim screams, his eyes wide with terror.

“Jim!” Sebastian cries out, jumping to his feet, standing in front of the Irishman in order to block his view of the detective. “It's okay honey. I won't let him hurt you. You're safe, you understand me?”

Jim sucks in a deep breath, and his shoulders straighten, trying to make himself feel a bit bigger against his larger boyfriend. The man lets out a breath, his fingers brushing against his wrists. “You want to explain what the _hell_ possessed you to come into my house in the middle of the night?”

Sherlock huffs out, fingers reaching for a second cigarette, annoyance rolling off those shoulders in strong waves. “Moriarty.” He states simply, his fingers brushing over a lighter as he brings the fag to his lips, lighting it up and puffing out smoke. “I need to ask you some questions about a murder case I'm working on.”

“Murder?” Jim snorts, his hands on his hips, eyes practically daggers as he steps out from around his hulk of a bodyguard to face the detective. “I've never done so much as jaywalk before. My record is clean. I haven't been around anyone involved in drugs, or prostitution, or anything. I have rights, and I demand that you let me go right now.”

“Jim,” John says softly, walking towards the man, holding his hands out carefully as brown eyes narrow on him. “Look, I know he's a bit unorthodox, and a bit crazy, but it would really be a big help if you could clear this all up.”

Jim crosses his arms over his chest, his eyes stuck on John instead of Sherlock – probably a good thing. It wouldn't be too pretty if the Irishman decided to take drastic measures against the detective. “Clear what up?”

“We were at a club the other night, Sherlock and I,” John catches the raised eyebrow that Seb gives him, and he decides to ignore the suggestive tilt of his brow. He's not going to think about if he likes Sherlock – or how easily he'd been seduced by the bloke. “We were searching out a criminal connected to the murder of Mary. You remember Mary, right?”

Jim nods his head slightly. “Yeah, I remember her. Seb was telling me about her murder a few weeks back. Terribly thing that was.” His arms uncross, and his body seems to relax with his attention focused on John instead of Sherlock. The ex army doctor can smell the smoke of Sherlock's cigarette behind him, but he doesn't turn around to face the detective. Has to keep things in control.

“Right, well, her killer was found buried in the backyard.” Jim grimaces at the words, but he can see the interest lighting up in those dark eyes. Jim works for IT at Bart's, and John bets that the man would love to run some samples on the scene. "He was involved in a gang. One of the members was a man named Harvey McFarland, who Sherlock managed to find and track down. We went to the club he worked at to get information. He killed himself by swallowing a cyanide pill – but right before that he said the name 'Moriarty'.”

John notices the way that Jim's face seems to get a little pale. But... that couldn't be an unconscious admission of guilt, could it? He just can't believe that the man Sebastian wants to spend the rest of his life with would be some sort of criminal. No, it's just not possible. Seb is just too good of a judge of character for something like that to happen.

“Sherlock did a search,” John continues, trying to keep himself off of his thoughts, wanting to get to the bulk of why Jim is here, instead of focusing on that pale face. “According to him,” He pauses, licking his lower lip, his eyes flicking up to Sebastian. “You're the only one with the name Moriarty living in London. First or last name.”

He slides his hands into his pocket, his eyes searching Jim's face with worry. He doesn't want to hear guilt slip from Jim's lips. The man shakes his head, his face still pale. “It wasn't me. It couldn't have been me.”

“How do you explain it then?” Sherlock's deep voice slips out from behind him, and John allows himself a momentary glance at the man. He's holding his cigarette between his fingers, his blue eyes bright on Jim's face before flickering over to John's – that flicker of a gaze holding heat that makes his breath catch, before blazing eyes turn cold and calculating, shifting back over to brown eyes. “Unless our source was lying. A possibility I have eliminated from the nature of his body language. Nothing in his words signaled that he was lying.” His lips tweak slightly, a confident smirk. “And no one has ever been able to lie to my face without my knowing.”

There's silence in the room, John's eyes shifting over to Seb and Jim nervously, the corners of his lips tugged into a small frown, and his brow pulled into a concerned wrinkle. Sherlock sighs heavily, and John's eyes glance back over to the man, who tilts his head back and blows out a ring of smoke – and honestly, that shouldn't be as hot as it is.

“I read in a book once,” Sherlock starts as he flicks the ash off the edge of his cigarette. “That once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbably, must be the truth.” His eyes are sharp on Jim, who's standing with feet wide apart in a hard stand against the detective's sharp words. “If my source wasn't lying, and you're the only man in London with the name Moriarty, then you must be the spider in the centre of the web I'm searching for. What else could the explanation be?”

“This Moriarty could be someone from another country!” Sebastian bursts out, his eyes hard as he stands slightly in front of Jim, trying to protect the man.

“Not very likely.” Sherlock mutters slowly, drawing in another drag of his cigarette. “As far as I can tell, this web only extends over our lovely city of London.”

“I don't care what you say.” Jim says stepping out from behind Sebastian, talking long strides over to Sherlock, before leaning down and placing his hands on both of the arms of his chair. He leans close to the detective, and John can practically feel the tension crackling in the air – and he's not entirely sure that it's all just emotional tension from the midnight kidnapping. “I am not involved with any criminal activity. I never have, and I never will. Can you see a lie in that?”

John almost feels uncomfortable watching those blue eyes flicker over Jim's face. The way his eyes linger on Jim's lower lip, or the way his own lips tilt into the slightest of predatory smiles. Sherlock lifts his cigarette to his lips, still cornered into the chair by the Irishman's arms. He takes a drag, and blows smoke into Jim's face – but the other only blinks without fully breaking the gaze the two of them are sharing.

Sherlock leans back in his chair. “Well, James Moriarty, you are either the most successful liar in the world, or you're innocent.” His lips tweak up, his eyes glistening with a flash of heat. “Personally, I'm betting on the first, but it seems that others – ” Blue eyes flicker over to John's before lighting back on Jim's. “Would rather I let you go now. Seeing as though the desire to acquire information is clearly not good.”

His eyes are on John's when he speaks the last words, and the doctor sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Jim pushes himself up off of the chair and shakes his head, letting out a huff of breath. The man walks over to Sebastian and slips his hand into the larger palm before he starts to tug the giant out of the room.

John’s eyes follow Jim as he and Sebastian leave the room. It’s really rather a shame that his first meeting with the boy had been under such dire circumstances. (Jim was just transferred to the IT at Bart’s last week, and it’s a bit out of the way for John to go visit him. But Molly has met him, and she’s trying to get the tree of them together for a lunch break sometime.) Honestly, it is incredible that the bloke had even calmed down when John talked to him – but perhaps his face is a bit more honest than a sharp angled madman dragging you out of your house in the middle of the night.

Jim's eyes flicker back towards John, and the doctor gets a look at the thin line of the Irishman's mouth and the worried crease in his forehead. But the glance is only for a moment – and then Jim and Sebastian are gone, their footsteps fading back down the stairs.

John turns to look at Sherlock, to see if the detective saw when he just saw – but the man has his eyes closed, face pointed towards the ceiling as he blows out a cloud of smoke. His arms drape over the arms of the chair, cigarette held between two fingers of his right hand.

The doctor lets out a heavy sigh, frowning at the detective. Sherlock's eyes snap open, and hooded blue eyes are on his face, staring into the innermost thoughts of his mind. John stands a little taller under the stare, holding his head up and meeting the man's eyes.

“I keep human body parts in the fridge, and sometimes I'm not home for days on end, would that bother you?” Sherlock tilts his head slightly at John, lifting his fag to his sharp lips to take a drag. “Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

John's lips dip into a slight frown, even as his heart pounds heavily in his chest. Was Sherlock really suggesting...? “Who said anything about flatmates?”

Sherlock's lips quirk. “You're an ex army doctor. You can't afford a house in London on an army pension. You haven't gone to your sister for help yet, and it's been three weeks, so you're not going to. And I highly doubt that staying in the house of your dead ex girlfriend is really something you wish to do.”

“So my only option is to room with you, is it?” John asks, tilting his head and frowning slightly, only minutely peeved that Sherlock could see through things so easily.

“Well,” The detective starts, the slightest of smiles on his lips as his eyes slide down John’s body before returning to his eyes. “You don’t have to if you don’t want. Free will and all that. But,” He pauses again, letting out a breath of smoke before leaning forward and putting his fag out in the ash tin. “What you did.... The thing you did...”

Blue eyes lift up to John’s, caught like a fly in a spider’s web. “It was good.” That head tilts slightly. “I wouldn’t mind having you around.”

The doctor snorts, shaking his head slightly. “I think you need a moral compass rather than a flatmate.”

“Care to fill the position?”

John chuckles softly, his tongue sliding out of his mouth to lick his lower lip. He glances about the flat. It’s not that bad. The clutter is utterly ridiculous, but John could force Sherlock to clean up a bit. There’s a hallway to the side – stairs leading up somewhere, and two doors that probably lead to a bathroom and a bedroom. So, there would be space for him. The human body parts are a bit worrying, but honestly, where else is John going to go?

His eyes return to the detective, who’s staring at him with his fingers steepled beneath his chin. John smiles. “Where’s your kettle?”


	6. Track Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track Four with lyrics: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mBUJr_4wEnQ

Heat. His whole body feels hot as fingers slide down his skin, thick and slick with lust. Teeth clash together, sending jolts through his skull. Sherlock’s fingers grip at the other’s arse, pulling him closer against him on the couch, thighs on either side of his slim waist. There’s a mouth hot on his own, their tongues sliding together in an attempt to get closer.

Hips shift, and there’s a gasp in his mouth, and a tongue sliding against his lips. Sherlock’s tongue reaches out, flicking against the tongue ring trying to invade his mouth. His fingers slide up a tight black shirt, fabric constricting his hands. He shifts the shirt, tugging at the hem and breaking their lips apart for a moment to pull the shift over the other man’s head, dropping it on the couch beside him.

The man’s fingers grab Sherlock’s face, and their lips are forced back together, hard, teeth crashing painfully, biting down on lips and grunting from the pain. Sherlock’s fingers slide up dark skin, fingertips lightly tugging at identical nipple rings and causing a mouth to open up against his own, breathing hot on his face as moans slip from darkened lips.

There's the sound of someone moving about downstairs, and Sherlock's ears pick up the sound of something knocking hard against a door. He pauses in his movements, but his partner doesn't seem to notice – lips move off of his own and trace down Sherlock's neck, biting and licking and sucking eagerly at the skin as fingers slide down to grab at Sherlock's arse, the touch needy, greedy and desperate.

Sherlock's eyes close, deciding to ignore the noises downstairs in favour of the body on his own. He leans his head back, giving the man more room to work on his neck, his own fingers sliding down the sculptured back to slip into trousers, fingers gripping the man's bare arse. A single finger brushes along his crack, and the man jumps slightly, but the next second his mouth is back on Sherlock's, breathing hot and heavy as their chests press together, hips swirling with friction.

“God, Sherlock, do you have to do that on the couch?”

Sherlock's lips break apart from the man he’s snogging, and he laughs, tilting his head back. The man on top of him leans back, and his face flushes considerably, before he glances over at Sherlock's flatmate. John Watson.

The detective smirks slightly as the blonde glances at them, and who then quickly glances away, moving into the kitchen before fetching the kettle out of the cupboard. “I thought you said your flatmate wasn't home.” The man, his name is Danny, whispers furiously into Sherlock's ear, and the detective shrugs his shoulders. “Must have slipped my mind.”

With a huff of breath, the man pushes himself off of Sherlock, retrieving his shirt from the couch, and tugging it over his body. Sherlock's eyes are on the man's face, flickering over the pierced tongue that is slipping out of his mouth, the pieced ears, and the dark ragged hair that threatens to fall over his eyes. His eyes dart over to John. John Watson in his sweats, fuzzy slippers, and ugly jumper. Why is it that Sherlock is attracted to them both?

Well, if one thing is for sure, it's that Sherlock doesn't have much of a type.

“Right well, call me.” The man says, giving Sherlock a smile. The detective chuckles, giving the man a curt wave as he turns to leave, having no intention of calling the bloke. He doesn’t do callbacks. “Bye Danny.” The other man doesn't turn around as he walks down the stairs.

“Do you really have to do that?” John asks, and Sherlock's eyes drift over to the blonde – and he smiles. “You're welcome to hop in.”

John snorts and shakes his head, fingers retrieving a teacup from the cupboard. Since the blonde has been here (which is about a week and a half now; and John has refused all of Sherlock’s advances; bit annoying actually), he's completely reorganized the kitchen – and essentially ordered Sherlock to stay out at all times. When Sherlock had complained about not having room to put his experiments, John bought a smaller fridge to keep just outside of the kitchen for him to put his stuff in. “Thanks, but no thanks. I don't do sloppy seconds.”

Sherlock's lips tweak. “John, you'd be anything but sloppy.”

He watches with a bit of satisfaction as the blonde's face heats up a bit, and he coughs and averts his eyes to the kettle in order to avoid talking to Sherlock. He licks his lower lip and raises his arms above his head, stretching out his limbs and letting out a sigh of relief as his shoulders pop, creating a domino effect in his back.

“Well, I see you're still frequenting the ugly clubs.”

Sherlock's eyes snap up to the man standing in the doorway, and he's instantly on his feet, his gaze hard. “Get the hell out of here.”

The newcomer smiles, a condescending tilt of his lips. His skin is pale and dotted with freckles, and his hair is cropped short to his head, but the red colour is unmistakable. “Sherlock, how horrible to treat your friends. Didn't your mum ever teach you that it's polite to offer a hot beverage to guests?”

“You're no fucking guest of mine. You're trespassing, that's what you are.” Sherlock snaps back, his arms folding over his bare chest, glad he's still wearing trousers. Dark green eyes are on his, and they're just so damn familiar. Same shape, same colour – different emotions.

_“Your eyes are gorgeous.” Sherlock murmured softly, a hand reached out to brush against Dominick's cheek, fingers splayed out further to tuck a curl of red hair behind small ears. His eyes flittered all over the green orbs staring back at him, absorbed in the flickers of light in their depths._

_Dominick's face turned the shade of his hair. “You must be looking in a mirror.” He whispered, and snuggled closer to the detective under the duvet. “Because you're the one with the gorgeous eyes.”_

_Sherlock snorted, his arms wrapped around the taller man, holding him close, their legs intertwined and their naked bodies pressed close together, sweat slicked skin long since cooled down. “You're such a sap.” He murmured, but there was a smile on his face._

_“You're a sap too.” Dominick answered, and smiled as he leaned forward to press their lips together in a chaste kiss. A hand slid up Sherlock's body to curl around the nape of his neck, keeping their lips together._

_“Just for you.” Sherlock whispered against soft lips, and Dominick chuckled – then pulled him closer and deepened their kiss._

“I'm sorry, but who are you?”

John's voice brings Sherlock's attention back with a blink, watching as the blonde peers out at the man from behind the kitchen counter, his hands full with the kettle.

“Oh.” The man in the doorway starts, turning his body to face John. Sherlock lets out a huff of breath, fingers itching for a cigarette. Damn him. Why did he show up? Did he need to come in here and prance around in that three-piece suit? Disgusting. He knows Sherlock doesn't want to see him.

“Sherly, I didn't realize that you finally found another poor soul to get offed.” The man's eyes are sharp on Sherlock's, who returns the glare, his fingers curling into fists.

“Whoa, I'm sorry, I don't know who you think you are – but I am not dying anytime soon, thank you very much. Much less by his hand.” John gestures over to Sherlock, his lips twisting into a slight frown at the dressed up man.

The man takes in a deep breath and swallows, his eyes closed for a moment as he nods his head. “You're right.” His eyes lift up to face John, an apologetic smile on his face. Sherlock snorts, rolling his eyes and stalking around to the diner table to fetch his pack of cigarettes. “Sherly and I have a bit of... unpleasant history, and I didn't mean to take it out on you.”

John nods his head slightly, his eyes flickering over to Sherlock as he picks op his lighter, firing up his cigarette and bringing the roll to his lips for a deep inhalation. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to block everything out – because he can't be here. Not at all.

“The name's Ian Bunker. I work for the government.” The redhead utters, and Sherlock opens his eyes to catch the two of them shaking hands. "John Watson. Doctor. I work at St. Bart’s."

Ian nods his head, glancing between the two of them. Sherlock huffs, deciding to pretend to ignore them, and moves to sit on the couch, kicking his feet up on the table and yanking out a book.

“So, unpleasant history, huh?” John asks, leaning against the counter of the kitchen after pouring his tea into his cup. “You slept with him?”

Sherlock snorts, and Ian bursts into a fit of laughter. John seems to be at a bit of a loss as the redhead practically doubles over in laughter. The detective rolls his eyes at the dramatics as Ian pushes himself into a standing position, wiping tears from his eyes. “John, you couldn't get me to sleep with Sherlock if you paid me a trillion euros.”

Ian keeps his eyes on John, who sips at his tea, blue eyes flickering over the redhead. “Oh...” The smile from the previous laughter slips off his face, and every line of his face becomes etched with sadness. “You have, haven't you?”

John blushes all the way to his ears, and Sherlock can't help but smile at that – watching the two of them over the edge of his book. Ian slips his hands inside of his pockets, his head tilting slightly. “Do you... do you live here?”

“Have for the past week and a half.” John answers, coughing before he answers, eager to get the conversation away from sexual business. A topic Sherlock wouldn't mind having with John again. Especially since this whole Moriarty case is going absolutely nowhere, and that infuriates Sherlock to all extremes.

“Hm.” Sherlock watches as the redhead tilts his head slightly at John, a look that's more calculating than in the man's brother. “Well, if he's still keeping you around, that's a good sign.” Green eyes light on Sherlock's, catching the detective staring. “It means you might be realizing the self destructive methods of your behavior.”

“I'm not self destructive.” Sherlock mutters, flipping the page of his book, even though he hadn't read a single word of it. “Just say what you want, and then get the hell out of my life.”

“Believe me Sherlock, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to get out of your life.” Sherlock looks up to catch a disgusted sneer on his face. “My life would have been much better if he had never met you.”

Sherlock's fingers curl into the palms of his hands, bringing his book to rest on his lap. “Ian, get the fuck out.”

“Wait, I'm sorry, who?” John interjects, looking between the two of them. He settles on Sherlock, resting one hand on his hip. “You. Be a bit more polite, okay?”

Sherlock huffs and brings his cigarette to his lips, taking a long drag and leaning his head back to blow out a cloud of smoke. It almost looks like a ring.

_“I really don't understand how you do that.” Dominick muttered and shook his head as he looked up into the sky at the ring of smoke Sherlock had just blown out. The redhead brought his own cigarette to his lips, before he blew out a puff of smoke. “No matter what I do, it just always comes out as an ugly cloud.”_

_He glanced over at Sherlock, a smile on his lips. “Not like you. You're graceful in everything you do. Even smoking. Fuck, it's just not fair.” He poked the detective in the side, who chuckled and intertwined the fingers of their free hands._

_They were lying on the grass of a hill somewhere in a park, hiding from the demands of social company for a few hours. There was a soft wind, but it was barely enough to cause the smoke from their cigarettes to lazily drift away from them._

_“You're just puckering your lips wrong.” Sherlock advised the police officer. “See, watch.” He lifted his fag to his lips, closing his eyes as he took a soft inhalation, and then brought the roll away. He puckered his lips into a gentle circle, before softly blowing the smoke out from his lungs, a wispy circle of smoke floating into the sky._

_“Showoff.” Dominick muttered, but his fingers squeezed Sherlock's tightly._

_“I am a showoff. It's what I do. You know that.” Sherlock chuckled, and blew out smoke with the redhead – a smile graced his features as he felt utterly at peace with the world._

“I'm not surprised he hasn't told you.” Ian's voice brings Sherlock out of the smoky thoughts, his eyes lighting on the doctor and the redhead. “He's become a real secretive man.”

“Ian.” Sherlock warns, his voice dark and dangerous. Ian shoves his middle finger up at the detective.

“Makes sense that he wouldn't want you to know, actually.” Ian chuckles, shaking his head – but there's no smile on his face. Of course, why would there be? No reason for it at all. Terrible topic this one is. Sherlock hates that it's coming up. But he can't really do much about it. With John living here... he was bound to find out eventually. And maybe, maybe some part of him wants the doctor to know.

“See, the reason I know Sherlock is because of my brother, Dominick.” John's face brightens with realization, and he smiles slightly. “Oh, I know him.” Sherlock watches as the doctor's face imitates the colour of a tomato, and for a moment, the detective swears he can see the thoughts floating around the blonde's head.

“I, erm, I met Dominick six years ago when I met Sherlock for the first time. He's a really nice bloke.” John answers, taking a sip of his tea. Ian gives him the slightest of smiles, before dropping back into the sad arch. “Yeah, he was. Real brilliant too. I miss him everyday.”

“You think I don't?” Sherlock snarls out angrily at Ian, hating that he's here, hating everything, his fingers curling into fists and digging into the flesh of his palms. God, he needs to get out, needs to leave. He raises his cigarette to his lips again and takes a deep drag. No, he needs to be here. Needs to be able to stand tall against Ian when the bloke starts firing missiles at him.

Ian ignores the outburst. “Sherlock got my brother killed.” He says simply, nodding his head curtly, lips pressed into a thin line. “Two years ago.” His eyes turn on Sherlock, but instead of blazing with their usual fury, they're just dripping with ache, and pain, and regret – and that's oh so much worse. “If he had never met you he'd still be alive today.”

“Fuck you.” Sherlock mutters, blowing out a cloud of smoke, refusing to look at John, keeping his eyes focused on Ian instead. “I didn't kill him. I didn’t pull the trigger. It's not my fault he got shot.”

“Might as well have been.” Ian answers softly with a sigh. He glances over at John, and Sherlock follows the gaze – and wishes he hadn't. John's eyes are so sad, and he drinks his tea quietly, almost silently, as if he were collecting his thoughts to try and say the right thing.

“So, he got shot?” John asks quietly, his eyes on Ian's as a source of information. The redhead nods slightly. “Bank robbery. He died saving someone else from being shot. And while I am awfully proud of his sacrificing nature,” Green eyes spin around to Sherlock. “If you hadn't forced him out that day, he would still be breathing today.”

Sherlock doesn't say anything. He just takes another drag of his fag, his eyes hard on Ian's. “Well, fuck you. If you think you're the only one missing him, you're dead wrong. He was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Ian raises an eyebrow and glances around the room. “Yes, I see that.” His voice is practically dripping with sarcasm. “You’ve really honoured his memory. How exactly have the last two years been for you? Still smoking I see. And I thought you quit when you two got engaged. Good job for sticking to that mate.” He strides around the room, his eyes flickering about. “Still a mess in here. I would imagine there are still human body parts in your fridge, am I wrong?”

Sherlock's eyes narrow at the bloke, but he doesn't stop. “Still sleeping with anything that'll have you, aren't you?” He shakes his head. “I'm surprised you haven't contracted any diseases yet, being the little slut you are.”

“Alright, stop it now.” John exclaims, and Sherlock catches the hard look in his eyes as he turns those blue orbs on Ian. “Look, I haven’t known him as long as you have, and I can imagine that's some bloody horrible history between the two of you, but that doesn't give you the right to stand there and insult him.” John's blue eyes turn on Sherlock's, and the detective’s body stills as he looks into them, even all the way across the room. “He might be completely unorthodox towards everything, but he's still a human being.”

John's eyes turn to Ian's. “And every human being deserves to be treated with some respect.”

Ian nods his head, and Sherlock notices with the slightest of smiles that he has the decency to look guilty for his words. Green eyes turn to Sherlock, and he hates how similar they are to his brother's. “You know Sherlock, I think you might have finally found someone to help turn your life back around. Don't let him go just because you're being a drama queen and walling in your suffering. You're not the only one who lost someone that day.”

The redhead straightens the vest he has on, and he coughs, turning his head – but Sherlock catches the tears in his eyes, and it's like a stab of a knife to his chest. Ian's right. Ian's always right. He has a right to be bitter and angry with Sherlock – because Sherlock _had_ been too damn lazy to go to the bank that day, and had forced Dominick to do it instead. And Sherlock has wallowed. He lost his best friend, his lover, and his husband on that day – but Ian had also lost a brother. And yet Ian's still here, soldiering on, standing tall in his suit and continuing his work for the government with hardly more of a problem than one too many beers on the weekend.

And where's Sherlock? Drinking, sleeping around, and on medication for depression. He doesn't deal with loss very well – but he should be trying a little bit harder than he is. Ian hadn’t always liked Sherlock when he was with Dominick (and honestly, he could understand that – because Ian had been taking care of his little brother for years and years, and suddenly there was Sherlock, another man in Dominick’s life, and Ian had felt threatened) but he had approved of their relationship when he saw how happy Dominick was with him. It’s only Ian’s anger over his brother’s death, a death he couldn’t do anything to stop, a death he should have been able to prevent because it was his brother, his brother he was supposed to protect, that he was being so hateful towards Sherlock.

His eyes dart over to John as he leans forward and squishes his cigarette out in the ashtray. Maybe Ian is right. Maybe John can help Sherlock move on. After all, John did stand up for him, and Sherlock _had_ invited him to room with him. Maybe there's something more there than sexual attraction...

“But anyway.” Ian shakes himself, his fingers slipping into his pockets. “I didn't come here to insult Sherlock.” His hands slide out of his pocket, and there's a small box held between his fingers when he pulls his hands out. For a moment, the detective is surprised that he hadn't noticed that already – but his anger at Ian even being in his flat had probably been the cause in that failure.

“I got this in the mail a few days ago.” Ian mutters, walking over to Sherlock and placing it down on the table. “Along with two envelopes.” He takes those out of his other pocket and places one down on the table for Sherlock. John wanders out of the kitchen and into the living room, sitting down in an empty chair to watch, his eyes flickering over the materials.

“This letter,” Ian starts, holding up the one he has in his hands. “Was addressed to me.” He clears his throat slightly, eyes on the paper as he starts to read. “Dear Mr. Ian Bunker. I hate to be sending this through you, but I do so hate getting my hands dirty. And I'm going to get real pleasure out of seeing this happen. But, you won't understand what I'm talking about, will you? No, you won't. Because you're stupid.”

Ian swallows hard. “Inside, I've enclosed another letter, and a small box. Don't open either of these. If you do... well, you're creative. You can imagine the things I can do. By no doubt, you've already seen the format of this letter, and you will know that you're not dealing with another ordinary come home for Christmas letter.”

The redhead takes a moment to show the letter to Sherlock and John, just briefly enough to let the detective and doctor know that the letter isn't handwritten, but typed up – and Sherlock just gets the feeling that if he were to run the paper under chemical treatments, there would be no fingerprints but Ian's to speak of.

“This extra letter, you will give to Sherlock Holmes. The package is for him too. No doubt you'll be furious at the contents of the letter, but you'll have to fight him over for it. I don't care who keeps it. I just want Sherlock to know that I've had it in my possession for the past two years. Well, what are you waiting for Ian? Go see the man who killed your brother.” Ian swallows hard, and puts the letter down. “It's signed by someone named Moriarty.”

Sherlock's attention snaps, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees John's back straighten slightly, his attention caught. The detective reaches out and grabs the second letter, tearing it open for him to read. His eyes quickly scan over the words, and he has to physically stop himself from reaching out and tearing that box open. He swallows. Once. Twice. Three times. And then he opens his mouth to read the letter to Ian and John.

“Hello Sherlock. I bet you don't remember me. Of course, you don't know me. We've never met before. But I know you. You were the man who tried to foil me when I committed my first murder. Remember little Carl Powers? And how you tried so hard to get the police to pay attention to the boy's shoes, but they wouldn't listen to some snot nosed kid? Well. You were right. And doesn't that infuriate you?”

He pauses, and takes a deep breath before continuing. “But you see, you can't do anything about it. You'll never find me. I'll just continue to toy with you. Like a cat with a mouse. And Sherlock honey, you're the best kind of mouse there is.”

“But of course, I’m getting off track. Tends to happen, doesn't it? When you finally talk to someone whom you admire? But this is one puzzle you won't be able to figure out Sherlock. I don’t like getting my hands dirty, so I'll hardly be easy to catch. I'm the smoke behind the mirrors. The name whispered in darkened street alleys. The concept that strikes fear into the hearts of men too weak to understand. And you'd best be frightened Sherlock. Because I have been watching you for so long. And I'm closer than you would think.”

Sherlock swallows, placing the letter down on the table. “Love, Moriarty.”

There's a silence around the room, hanging oppressively like smoke in the air. The unspoken threat clung to their clothes, and Sherlock wanted to take a shower and scrub himself clean from the crawling feeling along his skin.

It's John who finally breaks the silence. “So, what's in the box then?”

Sherlock almost doesn't want to know. But his curiosity has always been too much for him. No one moves to stop him as he reaches forward and carefully takes the small box from the table. His fingers slowly undo the velvet ribbon that wound around the box, letting it float down to the floor. The tension in the room was thick around him, and he wishes he could reach for another cigarette to calm his nerves.

He lifts the lid of the box – and practically hears his whole world crashing around his ears. His fingers slip into the box, pulling out a simple silver chain, a round locket hanging from the end.

His throat tightens. It feels like everyone in the room has stopped breathing. Sherlock's fingers are shaking. He can't open the locket. No. He doesn't want it confirmed. No. No. This can't... it can't be...

His fingers unlock the locket, the small click like gunfire in the silent room. He slides the locket open, two familiar pictures staring back at him.

_“Why do you always wear this thing?” Sherlock asked Dominick where they sat on the couch, limbs folded together under the heat of a warm blanket, the noises of the TV played in the background. The detective's fingers were fiddling with a simple locket hung from a silver chain around the man's neck. They had been together for almost a year, and he had never seen the redhead take it off once._

_The other man chuckled softly, green eyes meeting blue. “Oh, but you’re the detective. Surely you can figure it out through your deductive reasoning.”_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes, and moved to kiss the underside of Dominick’s jaw. “I’d rather you just tell me yourself. You do so get pleasure out of telling stories.”_

_Dominick smiles slightly, and his fingers rose to open up the locket. Inside were two small pictures. On the left side, there was a picture of a young Dominick, maybe ten or eleven years old, and his older brother, who would have been twelve or thirteen if Dominick's age were correct. They weren't posed for the picture – they were just sitting together on a couch, Ian's mouth open as he held a book in his hands, his younger brother snuggled up against his side._

_On the right side of the locket, there was another picture, far more recent. It was the imitation of a picture Sherlock held in his wallet. One where Sherlock and Dominick had fallen asleep on the couch together, the detective resting his head on the redhead's shoulder – and Dominick with his mouth wide open in a snore._

_Sherlock smiled slightly. He remembered when that picture had been taken. About four months ago. He, Dominick and Lestrade had been working on a case, and it had been days since any of them had gotten any sleep. Lestrade had gone out of the flat to go buy some Chinese in an attempt to keep them awake. But while the detective inspector had been gone, Dominick had forced the grumbling detective into his arms. The redhead had let his fingers brush down Sherlock's side to calm the agitated man, and it had lulled the detective to sleep instead. Lestrade had come back to the flat to find them both fast asleep in each other's arms on the couch, and he just couldn't resist snapping a picture._

_“The locket was my mother's.” Dominick said quietly, his warm fingers trailed down Sherlock's sides again. “You know she died when I was sixteen, leaving me alone in the care of my brother.” Sherlock nodded silently. Dominick's dad had walked out on his family when Dominick was only four and couldn't remember much – but his brother Ian could still remember the event very clearly in his mind. The detective had heard the story from the older redhead. It wasn't a pleasant one._

_“Well, when she was on her death bed, she took it off, and she folded it into my hands. And she said to me,” Dominick paused, and pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock's forehead. “She said to me, 'Dominick, sweetheart, there are a lot of mean people in the world. But you're a bright boy, and I've tried to raise you the best I can. Please, keep this close to your heart, and never forget to remain true to those who love you.'”_

_Sherlock smiled, and tilted his head up to Dominick's, catching the man's lips in the sweetest kiss. “Well,” He started when they broke apart, his fingers moving to the locket and gently snapped it closed. “I am honoured to be counted amoung your mum and brother as someone you treasure in your heart.”_

_“Always.” Dominick smiled, holding Sherlock close, a pleasurable silence falling over them, wrapped up in each other's arms, their hearts light with love._

“That's.... that's Dominick's.” Sherlock hears Ian's voice, as if from far away – as though he's hearing the redhead’s voice from the other end of a long, dark tunnel. He swallows hard and nods his head ever so slightly.

He licks his lower lip, and his fingers snap the locket shut. His eyes light up to Ian's, who's staring at the trinket in the detective's hands as though it were his brother reincarnate. Ian lets out a sigh, and those green eyes slide up to Sherlock's. There's an imperceptible nod, and Sherlock slips the simple silver chain over his neck, letting the cool locket rest against his skin, a part of Dominick back with him again.

His eyes lift to John. But instead of staring at him with pity like the detective thought he would be, the doctor has a furrowed brow as he looks over the letters that were written. His lips are pursued together, and he softly shakes his head. “I don't think Jim could have done this.” John's eyes lift to Sherlock's, and the detective notices the agony flickering through those blue eyes. He doesn't want Jim to be guilty.

Honestly, Sherlock can't blame him. The man's been in a war – lost lots of friends, seen lots of good people die. His girlfriend had been murdered; he's not on good terms with his sister. John just needs something, anything, to go right. Even if it's the innocence of a man he's only met once.

“Sherlock!”

His head rises when he hears Mrs. Hudson's voice. She climbs up the stairs, her fingers gripping the railing as she reaches the top of the stairs and walks into the main room. “Sorry dear, I don't mean to interrupt you and your friends, but this just came in the mail for you. The man who delivered it said it was quite urgent.” Her delicate fingers hold out a postcard, and in less than a second, Sherlock is up off the couch, and has snatched the postcard from her.

Sherlock's eyes quickly flicker over the postcard, taking in the words. _Hey there Sherly. It seems you've gotten my message. Took little Ian long enough to give it to you. Just know, I'm laughing. We're all laughing at you. You won't find me. Fake names and all that. Just continue on with your life and your fake satisfaction. Because it's not worth coming after me. You'll lose. And if you try to catch me – I’ll lay you down and hold your neck while you choke. Love, Moriarty x_

His fingers drop the postcard that's sealed with a kiss, and he's sprinting down the stairs. He hears John calling out after him, but there's blood pounding in his ears as he practically jumps down the stairs, pushing the door to the flat open and stepping out into the usual London rain. Instantly, he's soaked from head to foot, and he can feel the chill in his bones, but that won't stop him.

His chest heaves as he sucks in deep, panicked breaths, turning frantically from side to side, his eyes sweeping the street, trying to catch sight of whoever dropped the post card off. He has to find this Moriarty. Because he's responsible. He's the reason Dominick is gone – the necklace proves it.

But there's not a person in sight down the whole street.

“Sherlock!”

He turns at the sound of his voice, turning to see John standing in the doorway of the building, a hand over his eyes as he peers out into the downpour at the detective. “Sherlock, it's pouring! There's no one out there! Come back inside before you give yourself a cold!”

Sherlock's fingers run through his wet hair, rain sliding down his skin. Since he's not wearing a shirt, his skin cools much faster, and his trousers are sticking to his legs in wet patches. He shivers slightly, and glances down the street again. No. Moriarty has to be here. He has to be.

“Sherlock.” John's voice is closer this time, and Sherlock's eyes dart over to the pair of blue eyes that has taken up residence beside him. Blonde hair quickly becomes stuck to a pale forehead, and blue eyes look up at him in concern. Fingers gently touch his arm, the warmth from the touch more comfort than the rain could ever provide. Sherlock heaves in a deep breath, shaky and unstable. He swallows hard again, trying to stand tall. Because he's always been strong. He's pushed away everything that has ever hurt him, and he's never shown how lonely and scared he is inside. Because he's always been able to hide away from the pain, and he can't fall to it now. He can't. Not when John is looking at him with those soft blue eyes, and he just _cares_ so much, and they hardly know each other, and he hasn't had that since Dominick.

“Sherlock.” The word is softer, and surely John must hate standing out in the rain, because his jumper is all soaked now. But then John steps closer to him, and those arms wrap around his stomach, and that head of blonde hair is just under his chin, a warm cheek against his chest.

“It's okay.” John whispers softly to the detective. “It's okay to feel sad. It's okay to fall apart Sherlock. I'm here.” Sherlock swallows hard, and his arms slowly move up to wrap around John's back, holding the doctor close to him. He doesn't want to cry, but he feels his lower lip quivering, and his eyes are hot and prickly. He closes his eyes, and water streams down his face.

Sherlock pretends it's the rain.

He's not sure how long they stand there. Him without a shirt on, and John's warm arms wrapped around his cold body. Sherlock hears the rain pounding against the sidewalk, the drip drip of water along the edge of the houses nearly calming, almost relaxing.

_“There's nothing wrong with thunderstorms Sherlock.” Dominick laughed as another roar of thunder clattered above their head, and Sherlock sunk further under the duvet for protection._

_“I didn't say I had a problem with them.” The detective snapped back, a growl on his lips. The room lit up with a crack of lightening, and he shivered slightly, his body betraying him and his obvious lie. It’s not that Sherlock is afraid of thunderstorms; he’s just not overly fond of the idea of getting electrocuted._

_“Come here,” Dominick whispered softly, and his warm hands pulled the man closer against his warm skin. Fingers softly traced down his back, letting Sherlock settle into those warm arms. Lips graced his forehead, and then Dominick was humming ever so softly. “It's okay Sherlock. I'm here. I won't let the storm hurt you.”_

_Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, and his eyes closed, the sound of the rain splattering against the windows fading as the sound of Dominick's heartbeat beneath his ear took priority – the steady beat reminding him that someone was here, that he wasn't alone, and that he never had to be alone again._

John's fingers are gently tracing down his back, and Sherlock's eyes are red and raw from his silent crying. He sniffles – his nose feels hot and stuffy, and he has to breathe through his mouth because his nose doesn't seem to be working. His ears pick up on a soft humming coming from the body pressed up against his. Sherlock doesn't have any more room for tears though. He just leans into John's body, the blond practically holding him up.

“Come on Sherlock,” John whispers quietly, fingers wrapping around his wrist as he disentangles himself from Sherlock's long limbs. “Let's get you inside and warm you up. And then you're taking a nap. And don't you dare refuse me, because I know you haven't slept in the past two days, and sleep will make dealing with this whole thing better.”

His lips tweak only the slightest bit as John drags him out of the rain, a crack of lightening illuminating the block. Sherlock's can't help but swivel his head about at the burst of light – but there's no mysterious figure standing on the end of the street watching them. No cars parked where they don't belong. No windows open with someone watching through binoculars. There is no one. Just a blonde doctor trying to pull him out of the cold.

Sherlock relents to the doctor's movements, feeling a bit numb. The locket is cold against his skin, but it feels like it's burning a hole through his skin, trying to dig it's way through Sherlock's chest to search for the heart that's gone missing.

For a moment, his skin feels off when there's no longer rain pounding against him. The feeling leaves quickly, and it's replaced by a shiver of cold. Somehow, he picks up on the fact that Ian is on the stairs, leaving, the redhead muttering something along the lines of 'I'll be in touch' before exiting with an umbrella.

John pulls him up the stairs, and then they're in the living room of their flat, and then they're in the bathroom, white walls surrounding them, and cold square tiles sucking out what little warmth remained in the soles of his feet. The light is flicked on, and Sherlock watches through blurry eyes as John walks over to the shower and turns the faucet on. The blonde sticks a hand out into the stream of water, testing the heat, before he closes the shower door.

And then John is standing next to him, and there's a warm cloth on his face, wiping away the tear trails. Sherlock blinks his eyes when the cloth is removed, starting to feel a bit more like himself now that the evidence of his weakness has been removed. Crying. Sherlock doesn't cry. Somewhere in his head, he knows that it's not true. He knows that sometimes he still wakes up in the middle of the night with tears on his face, but he always just wipes them away and shoves the memories into the trash bin of his mind palace. Always ready for deletion, but unable to actually push them away.

Sherlock blinks again when he feels John's hands at the waistband of his trousers, popping open the button and trying to take them off. The detective snickers softly, and blinks his eyes. “You know John, if you wanted me out of my trousers, all you had to do was ask.”

John rolls his eyes. “Prick.” He spares Sherlock a soft smile though, and those warm fingers gently pull down his trousers around his ankles, helping the detective step out of them. “I'm going to help you take a shower.” The doctor sticks out a finger at him. “And _just_ shower, mind you. Don't pull anything funny. Just this one time.”

Sherlock takes in a deep breath and swallows. He's actually missed this. Someone telling him what to do. Not that he'd let anyone tell him what to do in regards to his job, or his life, or anything - but when it comes to an emotional connection, Sherlock has always been a bit submissive. He doesn't want to think about what to do. So he lets John guide him.

John's warm fingers gently help Sherlock out of his pants, so that the detective is standing naked in the middle of the bathroom. He notices John pretending not to stare, and it makes him smile. Maybe... maybe he could get the doctor to sleep with him after the shower. He needs the comfort right now. God, if he needs anything right now, it's someone close against his own skin. Maybe he could... he could...

His thinking trails off as he watches John start stripping off his own clothes. Gone goes the wet jumper, messily folded up and placed in a wet heap with Sherlock's clothes on top of a laundry hamper John had insisted go in the bathroom. John suddenly looks a lot slimmer without the jumper on.

Sherlock watches as the doctor takes off his shirt, revealing flushed skin, cut into muscles from his training, his chest rising and falling with each breath. There's a bit of sparse hair over his chest, and Sherlock's eyes drop to catch a glimpse of the hair peeking out from below the waistband of his trousers. John leans over to place his shirt with the rest of the clothes, and Sherlock gets a look at his shoulder. His eyes flicker over scarred tissue, blown out in marks that Sherlock knows from experience can only come from a bullet wound.

Oh. Psychosomatic limp. Right, John had said he'd been shot in the shoulder. Back on that night when they'd gone to the club, and John had run along with him, forgetting his cane and losing his limp in the process. Sherlock feels an incredible urge to let his fingers trace the mark, to see if he can feel the edges, and trace every memory of skin into detail. His hand twitches slightly, but stays rooted at his side.

John lifts his legs up, and takes off his trousers and his pants, placing them with the rest of the wet clothes. Sherlock gets a look at strong, toned legs, and the hair doesn't put Sherlock off in the slightest. He wants to run his fingers up John's calves, and his thighs, to feel the skin and hair, to search and see if he was ticklish. He wanted to let his fingers roam over John's feet, to touch every inch of him and figure out what spots make him tick, and which ones tickle his fancy.

Of course, Sherlock's eyes have to rest on John's pelvis, and he takes in stock the dirty blonde hair he'd caught a glimpse of seconds earlier. It's a much darker shade than his hair, but Sherlock doesn't much care. John's limp dick was just as attractive in this state as it was when Sherlock had seen it hardened, and he almost wants to step forward, take John into his hand, into his mouth, and hear the doctor moan, moan for him, to hear John say that he needs the detective.

Then John's fingers are on his arm, and Sherlock is gently being tugged forward. John opens the door of the shower, and the two of them step inside, more than enough space for them to be there. The warm water cascades down Sherlock's back, and he closes his eyes for a moment, leaning his head back and letting the water fall over his face, streaming down his neck and down his chest, warming his body up through the same technique that had made him so cold outside of the flat.

He feels John moving around his body, but he keeps his eyes shut, letting John lead. Wherever this is going. He doesn't want to think. He just wants to be blank. He can't think. He can still feel the locket against his chest – and he's glad that John didn't take it off of him. As sad as it made him, he couldn't bear to part with it. Not yet.

And then there are fingers brushing against his scalp, and he feels John's fingers thread through his hair. The doctor gently tugs Sherlock's head back slightly, closer to the stream of water, and he just stands there and feels as those fingers tug his curls out under the water, letting the hairs turn to thick, wet strands under the influence of the water.

He hears a slight click of a bottle opening – and for the briefest moment Sherlock can't remember if he had lube in his shower or not – and then he feels John's fingers back in his hair again, and his nose smells vanilla. That's not his shampoo.

It's John's. Sherlock thought he knew the scent from somewhere. John's fingers gently massage his scalp, working the shampoo into his hair, and cleaning him. His mouth opens slightly as John tugs some of his follicles a certain way, and a moan slips out. He knows that John wasn't trying to arouse him, but god it did.

Behind him, he hears John snort, and Sherlock smiles ever so slightly. He can image the look on John's face – a slight, disbelieving smile, but a content look in those blue eyes as those fingers continue to thread through his hair, before tugging him back slightly to let the water wash the shampoo out of his hair. The soap runs down his back as John's fingers urge the shampoo out, leaving his hair in a cleaner state.

Another bottle snaps open, and Sherlock catches another waft of vanilla. John's fingers are threading through his hair again. Conditioner. For a moment, Sherlock's throat tightens. John is washing him. Taking care of him. Caring for him.

A single tear slips out of his closed eyes, and if John sees it, he doesn't say anything about it.

John's fingers leave his hair, and Sherlock can still feel the conditioner in his hair when he opens his eyes, and he turns to see John grabbing the shampoo bottle again.

“Here,” Sherlock says softly, gently taking the bottle from John's hands. “Let me.” His voice is softer than he had meant it to be, and the look in John's eyes as the blonde looks up at him tells him that something significant is passing between the two of them. And he knows that. Right here, right now, when Sherlock is so vulnerable, and they're standing naked together in a shower, caring for each other in a bubble of silence that doesn't let in any of the hurt from the outside world in. Right now, there's a flicker of heat beneath Sherlock's stone cold heart – and the detective ignores it.

He squeezes out shampoo into his hand and snaps the bottle closed, placing it into the shelf. Sherlock pulls John closer to him, and his fingers find their way into John's hair, repeating the process that John had done on him. Carefully, he imitates the motions that John had done with him, his longer fingers gently massaging the blonde's scalp, watching in fascination, as blonde hair turns dark under the influence of the water. His eyes flicker over John's face as the blonde closes his eyes, giving himself up to Sherlock and his fingers, trusting him completely, even though Sherlock is a complete mental case, and surely John must see that by now.

Sherlock washes the shampoo out of John's hair, the scent of vanilla thick in the air as the shampoo travels down the curve of John's spine like the path had been laid out specifically for it. Before John can protest, Sherlock is taking the conditioner, and working it into John's hair, spending longer than strictly necessary massaging his fingers into John's scalp, marveling at how warm the man is, the heat magnified by the warmth of the water. So very unlike Sherlock, whose limbs still feel numb under the heated influence.

Silently, Sherlock washes the conditioner out of John's hair, the soap leaving John's hair wet and clinging to his forehead in patches. John's eyes open, and he spares him a soft smile, before he rotates Sherlock so his back is to the water. The doctor gently tugs his head back, and then John's warm fingers are in his hair again, leaning his head back under the stream of water and leading the remaining conditioner out of his hair and down his back to end up on the floor of the shower, leaving forever down the drain.

And he feels John's lips press against his shoulder blades.

Before he has time to react, there's something soft against his skin, and he turns his head to see John with a soap covered loofa, washing his back and his side, soaping up his body to get the detective clean. So Sherlock stands there, letting the blonde take him by the arm, sliding the loofa up and down his arms, his torso, his chest, soaping up his body and warming him. And every now and then there's a kiss.

John presses a kiss to the palm of Sherlock' right hand as he washes that arm.

Another soft kiss against his collarbones as the doctor leans close to wash his stomach.

And the blonde gets down on his knees, washing Sherlock's legs with the loofa – and the detective can't even breathe. He just watches as John pays attentive detail to his skin, making sure every inch of skin is coated with the soap and washed away by the water. Sherlock has to brace himself against the walls of the shower as John gently lifts his feet (one at a time) and carefully washes the soles of his feet and between his toes before washing back up his calves, and his thighs. The soap covered loofa graces Sherlock's arse, and John's hand gently cleans his pubic hair and the underside of his limp cock – and Sherlock doesn't even feel a rush of arousal at the touching.

He just stares. Watching. Not breathing.

Because he can't remember the last time someone took such good care of him. And he's too shocked to react. In any way.

John finishes covering Sherlock with soap around his neck, and then he gently pushes the detective back so he's standing under the flow of water. And Sherlock can't do anything but stand there and watch as John gets more soap and quickly scrubs down his own body, not being nearly as easy going with his own skin as he had been with Sherlock's. Which only tells Sherlock that the blonde had been going extra careful with him.

He swallows hard as John comes to stand under the flow of water with him, the warm stream shedding the both of them of their soap, their skin barely brushing against each other. Sherlock's head is tilted down at John, water flowing past his eyes, and his hair dripping water into his face, or onto John's face below him. John squints as he looks up at the detective, trying to protect his eyes from the onslaught of water as he looks up into blue eyes.

It's like a magnetic effect. Sherlock leans down at the same moment that John leans up, and their lips connect. It's wet and warm, and soft. John's lips are so soft under his own, and when John's tongue slips past his lips he tastes like tea. Vanilla and tea. It's John's smell. His taste. And Sherlock finds that he rather likes it.

John's fingers are in his hair again, but it's not for washing. It's for holding the detective close, their wet chests pressed together as their bodies fold into one entity, water showering over their skin.

Sherlock loses himself in the touch. He can't even feel Dominick's locket pressed between them as John's tongue outlines the detective's lips. His own fingers slide down the curve of John's back, but rest on his hips, not dipping further onto his back.

The whole kiss is soft. It's sweet. It's the beginning of kindling in his stomach. He opens his mouth wider, encouraging John to come inside so he can taste that vanilla, to take John and pull him closer, use him as a life raft, as a jumper he can wrap himself in, as a safety net he doesn't have to leave.

The water eventually turns cold, and John laughs as the first icy droplets hit their skin. He quickly shuts off the water, and tugs Sherlock out of the shower, grabbing towels in the process.

The blonde towels Sherlock off first, ruffling his hair under the soft threads of the towel until his curls are dry and poufy. John chuckles, and Sherlock can't help but smile as the blonde drops the towel to Sherlock's skin, gently patting him dry, making sure to get every inch of his back, his chest, his arms, his stomach and belly button, getting down on his knees again to dry off Sherlock's legs and his feet, carefully patting his crotch and arse dry before he takes another towel and quickly dries his own body.

Sherlock just stands, waiting as John finishes. The blonde tugs Sherlock into his room, and the detective stands naked at the foot of his bed as a naked John turns to his dresser, shuffling through his clothes before he picks out a two pairs of pants, two sweats and two baggy shirts.

John dresses himself first, and Sherlock watches with a bit of sadness as John's incredibly toned body is hidden from him again. Red pants cover his cock, and plain grey sweats cover his legs. John tugs one of Sherlock's old Uni shirts over his head, and John completely loses any and all definition by tugging that shirt on. He becomes the bulge of a man who insists on wearing fluffy jumpers around when he could be so much more if he just wore clothes that fit him a bit better. But... it's a bit domestic, John wearing his clothes. And Sherlock kind of likes it.

The blonde walks over to him, and carefully helps Sherlock step into a pair of yellow bee pants, covering himself up. John helps him step into a pair of olive green sweats (honestly, why does he even have all these clothes? Not in his usual style in the slightest), and then tugs a large white shirt over Sherlock's head.

And then John's leaning towards him, and their lips are caught in another soft kiss. John pulls away before the intensity can soar higher, and Sherlock lets himself be pushed into his bed, under his duvet.

Sherlock blinks when he notices that John isn't coming into the bed, and is starting to tuck the duvet around his body like his mum used to do when he was little. His hand reaches out and grabs John's arm – forcing blue eyes to meet.

_Stay. Please._ Sherlock pleads silently, the look in his face portraying the words for him. John gives Sherlock a soft smile, and nods his head, climbing into his bed and under the duvet. Their bodies brush together, warm and comforting. Sherlock's arms wrap around John, pulling him closer against him and breathing in the scent of vanilla and fresh water, his eyes closing.

He listens to John's breathing, feels the blonde relax against his body, and feels the gentle press of lips against his neck. Sherlock hears a soft humming, and the rain is gently knocking against the window.

He feels refreshed from the shower. John's fingers brush along the curve of his spine, and the gesture, in combination with John's humming, the warmth of his body, and the soft whispers of the rain, eventually cause Sherlock to fall asleep in the doctor's arms.


	7. Intoxicated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Intoxicated with Lyrics: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zMHONSISWOs
> 
> I created a Google Doc that has all of Sherlock's notes as described in this chapter. I shall post a link here, to which anyone may access - even if you don't have a Google account. You won't be able to edit it, but you can comment on it. Hope it helps!  
> https://docs.google.com/file/d/0B1RFBlm3rjdwX1pCUU52YkZiUlk/edit?usp=sharing

_Loud. Everything was too loud. There was a shout in his ear, and gunfire over his head. Someone called out his name, and John turned to look for him or her – only there was nothing but the arid desert before him. He tried to move forward, but it was so hot, and his throat was dry; his entire body just ached for a drop of water._

_“John!”_

_There was his name again. There was a scream – a blood curdling sound that made every hair on the doctor's body stand up straight, and his stomach heaved with revulsion. But he pushed himself forward. Somewhere, somewhere, someone needed his help. And he was a doctor. That's what he does. Help people._

_There's gunfire off to his left. Something barreled into him and pushed him to the ground, effectively shoving his face in dirt. Above his head, bullets whizz by. He can see just how narrowly he escaped death, but he didn’t have time to thank his savior – for the man had moved on, searching out to rescue the next poor sod standing in the way of a bullet._

_He was at a dying body, and his fingers were pressed against the flesh, blood spurted out over his hands, drenched his skin in the life force of the man who howled on the sand in front of him. It was gritty in his eyes – the sand was everywhere, from his mouth, to his ears, to his eyes, to his pants. The sand was inescapable._

_A hand gripped his own tightly, and there was the face of a frightened young boy below his. “I don't wanna die.” The lad whispered, his voice breaking in several places, his last gasps of air forced the words out of his body before the hand in John's went limp._

_“You can't save everyone friend.”_

John's eyes blink open. And he closes them. Afghanistan. Again. It's not exactly rare for him to be dreaming about the god-forsaken place (he had spent five and a half years of his life there after all), but it’s something that John hates revisiting. It also happens to be a place he suspects he'll see again and again behind his eyelids for the rest of his life.

He turns his head, blinking and stretching his arms out as he lets his body accustom to the conscious state. This isn't his bed – no, no, this is Sherlock's bed. While John's bed is simple, at least he has a few knickknacks on his bedside table, or a quilt his Mum made for him at the foot of his bed. Sherlock's bed is... it's plain. Dull grey sheets and a blank duvet cover his bed, and nothing lies strewn across the top of his bedside table but a small novel on beekeeping.

John's mouth unlatches in a yawn, and he pushes himself into a sitting position. His hand stretches out to feel the area of the bed beside him – cold. Sherlock's been awake for a while. His eyes dart to the clock on the wall and his eyebrows rise in surprise. Nearly a quarter to ten. Sherlock should have woken him up.

Well, he doesn't have work today, so perhaps the detective thought it would be a nice way of paying him back if he let the doctor sleep in.

His fingers run through his hair as he remembers the previous evening/night. Altogether, rather boring day. John had gone to work, came home to an empty flat, made a cup of tea, and went upstairs to his room to drink his tea and read a book. Sherlock had returned much later – and John hadn't wanted to leave his room once he heard the moans.

He had to once he ran out of tea.

Say what you want, but reading a book is always more fun with a cup of tea on hand.

And then there was Ian. Mr. Ian Bunker, brother to a departed Dominick Bunker. That was a bit of news – but it really did clear up a lot in John's mind. Why Detective Inspector had given him such a sad look that night he met up with Sherlock again. Why Sherlock had been staring that that newspaper article of a dead policeman. It was all Dominick. The redhead had died – and it was more than obvious that Sherlock hadn't dealt with his death by the way he'd reacted when he opened up that little box.

Jesus. This Moriarty character is one sick fuck. Tormenting Sherlock like that… it makes his stomach roll. He can't even begin to imagine experiencing that kind of pain.  And this is coming from a man who suffered cardiac arrest at the age of twenty-nine after getting shot in the shoulder.

Of course – the events only raises more questions. Obviously Dominick had meant a great deal to Sherlock – but where they just fuck buddies? Flat mates? Friends? Lovers? More? John doesn’t know – although he has every feeling in his gut that it was something more than superficial sex.

He's been a doctor for a while now. Almost ten years. Well, unofficially. He got his degree shortly before leaving for the war, but John has thought of himself as a doctor since that first day of walking through the doors of the University.

The point: he's been a doctor for quite some time. Long enough to know that people do some crazy shit when they're mourning. And even crazier shit when they're in denial. This whole facade that Sherlock has – the casual sex with strangers – John gets the feeling that it was a byproduct of Dominick's death.

Okay, sure, Sherlock had sex with _him_ back six years ago and they hadn't known each other. But Dominick had been there, and the whole situation was different. Sherlock was kinder, sweeter – and a fuck ton more submissive six years ago.

John gets a shiver down his spine when he remembers nearly five weeks ago now, when Sherlock and he had come racing back to the flat, and Sherlock's lips had been dominant on his, and the man had wrecked him so hard into this very same mattress that, at the time, John hadn't thought he would ever be able to recover.

He licks his lower lip, bringing his hands to his eyes and rubbing the little bits of sleep out of their corners. His mind gives him a flashback of standing in the shower; his wet hands on Sherlock's skin, pressing their lips together for comfort. God, he doesn't know what possessed him to do that. To kiss Sherlock.

Actually, no, that's a lie. And John really doesn't want to start lying to himself, because that would be taking a step down a yellow brick road he really doesn't want to follow.

Sherlock had just looked so sad. Out there in the rain, standing with his hair stuck to his forehead, and his eyes frantically searching for the sender of the postcard, trying to save a man who couldn't be saved. The hopelessness in Sherlock's eyes had brought John crumbling. He was a doctor. And doctors help people.

So he'd taken Sherlock inside and tried to help him take a shower. He thought the closeness would do Sherlock some good. Maybe it did, maybe it didn't – honestly John doesn't know. While everything was going on, Sherlock really seemed to need him – as if the detective were using him as a crutch to keep himself from toppling back down to the ground. But now...

John glances around the room. No Sherlock. Not even a note, or a cup of tea left out.

On the other hand – if Dominick has been gone for two years, and Sherlock has been beating himself up with nameless sex and who know what else, it's very doubtful that Sherlock would have even thought of such a thing.

John lets out a deep sigh and holds his hands above his head, letting out a soft moan when the muscles in his back crack and bring swift relief to his poor body. He stretches his legs out, curling his toes and his fingers, forcing the blood to flow a bit faster through his body. With that, John pushes himself out of bed and heads for the bathroom down the hall.

Almost on autopilot, John takes his morning piss, brushes his teeth to get rid of any morning breath, and scrubs his face with a washcloth and some soap. Most days he would take a shower when he woke up – but the shower from less than twelve hours ago seems to call that point moot.

John wanders into the living room of the flat, still donned in Sherlock's baggy clothes. He hadn't thought the detective owned anything like this (what with the overabundance of specially tailored suits that the man wore practically twenty four/ seven) and it was nice to find something a bit cozier about the detective.

He just prayed that the clothes were actually Sherlock's, and not some of Dominick's old clothes that the man had kept.

John pads out into the kitchen, his bare feet making soft noises against the tiles of the kitchen floor. He yawns again, raising a hand to his mouth and shaking his head to wake himself up. Hmm… coffee would be good. Coffee or tea?

Another yawn escapes his lips and makes his decision for him.

He shouldn't even be this tired. It's not like he had been put through a lot of emotional stress last night. He hadn't even been under physical stress either. All that had happened was that he fell asleep with Sherlock wrapped up in his arms.

His lips tweak slightly at the memory. It was a nice feeling – the detective so complying and his skin gentle to the touch. The man had been so warm against his chest, and John had laughed quietly to himself when he heard Sherlock start snoring. Thank god it wasn't a loud snore, or John might have never fallen asleep. No, Sherlock had a nice, quiet, kind of adorable snore.

Honestly, the whole situation is a bit intoxicating.

John rummages through the fridge and the cupboards, searching for something to eat. He eventually settles on some marshmallow cereal he had bought earlier that week (and eating cereal is such a nostalgic feeling for him – he’d always eaten cereal for breakfast every day as a kid) and pours some into a bowl, taking out the milk from the fridge. The blonde sets up the coffee at the same time; letting the machine work it's wonderful coffee-making magic as John hunts for a spoon. Sherlock had promised to stay out of the kitchen as much as possible, but the doctor just had the itching feeling in the back of his mind that the man was moving objects on him just to aggravate him.

Any sane person would have moved out back on day one.

Well, any sane person probably would have reported Sherlock to the police for kidnapping.

John shakes his head, brushing the thoughts aside. No, it's too early in the morning to be questioning his own sanity. He doesn't want to feel like he’s flying high in the sky, or being taken to the moon – he wants to stay right here on planet earth, eat his cereal, and get dressed before Sherlock comes back from wherever the hell it is that he went.

The blonde sits down at the kitchen table with his bowl of cereal, settling for eating the food with a spork when he can't find a spoon. Maybe he ought to invest in chopsticks and just eat everything with those. Sherlock would like that – they’ve gone out for Asian food almost every day this past week. Perhaps it was a phase.

Of course, eating cereal with chopsticks could prove to be quite a difficult challenge. Maybe he could take it up anyway. See where it got him. Would he be any good? Would it be worth the practice?

Is he still even talking about chopsticks?

Intoxicated. Mh. It's a funny word. Intoxicated. To stupefy or excite by the action of a chemical substance such as alcohol. Well, that's the dictionary definition anyway.

He thinks back, back to six years ago when Sherlock had slid into the seat beside his at the bar, and Dominick’s laugh had been something to make the blonde smile. John thinks back to when those devious lips had first pressed against his own – and he had thought the same thing. Intoxicating.

Essentially, that's how the detective makes John feel. When they're touching, kissing – John feels like his body is floating on some sort of addiction, where he knows he probably shouldn't be drinking this much, but he just can't help but think: one more glass. One more glass won't hurt. I'll just have _one_ more glass...

John thinks back to the way those eyes had lit on his body. The way the heat in those swirling eyes had looked like a shot of whiskey. They way the touch of those eyes against his skin warmed the doctor up like a summer night.

He picks up his coffee and takes a sip, feeling a bit better as the warm slides down his throat and settles into his stomach. John blinks a couple more times, taking another sip and awaiting the energy from the drink. Thinking about Sherlock from six years ago, and comparing him to the Sherlock now was just confusing. But one thing was for sure.

John's eyes drift over to the board of newspapers and photographs, red string linking different articles of evidence. He smiles slightly. One thing was for certain. Sherlock wasn't going to be getting rid of him for a while.

The doctor spends a few more minutes gazing over the different articles, not really reading, not really paying attention, as he finishes his cereal, chewing on the delicious bursts of marshmallows that come with the crunchy "normal" pieces of the breakfast cereal. He glances over to the kitchen again – no, there's no fruit. He'd been sure he bought some oranges, or apples, or even a single banana when he was at the store yesterday. Maybe Sherlock had eaten it.

The thought makes him smile. Even though he's only lived here for a week and a half, he knows that living with the detective is even more hell that he had imagined. In addition to the human body parts in the fridge (those of which were not limited to eyeballs, thumbs, toes – even a fucking head!) and the violin playing, Sherlock doesn’t sleep much, and he doesn’t eat much. When Sherlock does sleep, it’s usually after a session of six or more hours on the violin – or after Sherlock has come home from fucking someone. Both events only occurred once each since John had been there. That's two nights of sleep (which probably lasted about five hours each) for nearly eleven days of being awake (for all of you at home who are keeping score).

It’s going to be an uphill battle with this one. And John finds himself genuinely caring for Sherlock – despite his odd habits and whatnot.

Every so often, John would look up from whatever he was doing, and he would count back down on his fingers, counting how many days he has been living with Sherlock, how many days since he slept with Sherlock, how many days since he'd met the man again – and he would marvel at how ready he is to just jump into whatever the man would suggest.

That's not to say John is rolling over and being some sort of dog that runs to his master's every beck and call. But he didn't exactly say no when Sherlock sends him a text requiring his presence. Most of the time it’s something silly like making tea, or asking to buy some milk – but once Sherlock had shown him the results of a quick case that he had solved for Lestrade because he was bored, and John couldn't help but be astounded by his intellect all over again.

John takes his empty bowl of cereal over to the sink, washing away the traces of marshmallow against the rim of the bowl, setting it to dry in the rack. He'll dry it along with the supper dishes for that night. Hm. What should they have for supper tonight? Take out was getting a bit dull. Perhaps he could try making some pasta, or some pork – god, John hasn't done a nice home cooked meal in ages. His mum's cooking had always been the best when he was a kid, and he'd always stuck around her in the kitchen, trying to figure out her secrets.

But John finds his eyes drawn back to the board. Back to the board of clues that circle around the word **MORIARTY** , drawn in thick, black letters in the centre of all the chaos. He just can't think of Jim being responsible for any of them. He'd have to call Seb and ask for Jim's number. Maybe he could talk to the man and find out if he'd even been living in London two years ago when Dominick had been killed.

The blonde moves out of the kitchen, his feet taking him to stand in front of the huge poster board. First, his eyes find the article he'd picked out the first time he'd looked upon the board when Sherlock had kidnapped Jim. BANK ROBBERY ENDS IN THE KILLING OF ONE OF LONDON'S FINEST.

_Yesterday afternoon, three masked men had strolled into the Citibank on 3 Hanover Square and locked the doors behind them. Each one had been armed with a lethal weapon – and thus began the heist situation. One of the men, who appeared to be their leader according to witness Lindsey Moore, had ordered the employee at the time to empty out the vaults, or people would start dying._

_The other two bank robbers had kept the thirteen civilians on the floor of the bank, threatening to shoot anyone who dared resist. When the employee returned with the money for the robbers – that’s what the commotion began._

_“There was this old woman,” Stephanie Wilders (aged 32) remarked to us after the incident. “Must have been at least seventy five or eighty years old. She didn't like what was going on, and was trying to use her cell to contact the police. I kept shaking my head at her; try to tell her to stop, you know? But she wouldn't listen. And then one of the robbers turned on her.”_

_One of the robbers allegedly had turned a gun on Marie Colbert (age 81) and threatened to shoot her._

_“It was terrifying.” Informed Lindsey Moore (age 24). “This old lady trying to stand up to these goons. And then – then the first robber, the one with all the cash, turned around and yelled at this bloke with the gun. I'm, I'm not even sure what happened next, it all happened so fast. There was the sound of a gun firing, and a shout of pain – but it was a man's shout.”_

_One of our very own London police had been in that bank that day, on personal affairs. His name is not disclosed as per request of the family. But this man, this brave young man, pushed Ms. Colbert out of the way, sacrificing himself for her._

_He was pronounced dead by members of St. Bart’s hospital yesterday at 21: 34._

The article went on to describe a few more accounts from eyewitnesses, and it reported the thievery as well. According to the newspaper article, the robbers had stolen about two and a half million euros, and then fled without a single trace. There was even a quote at the bottom of the article from Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, who remarked on the bravery of the unnamed man, and asked everyone in London to keep his or her eyes peeled for the murderer.

There's a red string at the top of the article that connects to a separate newspaper article. This one goes on about the robbers from the first article and how the police hadn’t found them. John checks the dates on the newspapers – they’re set about eight months apart.

He grimaces slightly. God. That must have been such a horrible experience for Sherlock. Maybe he should talk to the man about it... get the story straight from his mouth.

John's eyes roam over to the next article, one from three years ago. CAT CRIME ON CHESHIRE.

_Early this morning, when citizens were still rising from their beds and making their morning cup of tea – there were no mice in sight as the cats went to play._

_Beach London, a shop down on 20 Cheshire Street here in London, which is famously known by the locals as a ground floor cafe with a print shop and a reading area, was cleaned out of 20,000 euros at four in the morning._

_“I really wasn't expecting it,” Told Jamie Lynn (age 47), who worked the morning shift at the store that morning. “It was just a normal day, normal morning London drizzle. I was just opening up the shop and fixing some products behind the counter, when these two men approached me with a gun and demanded that I turn in all the money currently in the store.”_

_Normally, there's not so much money just lying about the local store, but the cash had been in the back room that day, waiting to be transferred to a bank – due to occur later that very same day. And it was all stolen._

_These two men, described by our only witness, were roughly six feet tall each. Both had grizzled faces. One had a goatee, while the other a full beard. Man #1 had blue eyes and wore plaid from head to foot, with short brown hair. Man #2 had brown eyes and wore a denim jacket, with short blonde hair._

_A local sketch artist drew the two men from Ms. Lynn's description, and police matched the description with Daron Davis and Johnny McCoy. (Pictures to the left). These man are armed and dangerous, and it is warned that everyone keep an eye out for them._

That article has red string drawn to various pictures clustered in the top corner of the board. In the pictures, the two described men are seen around various places in London – shopping mall, on the tube, walking across the street. Sometimes they wore sunglasses, sometimes they had umbrellas, but their outfits always ranged in different styles of plaid for Davis and denim for McCoy. And every picture had a date.

John's eyes flicker back to the article, checking the date again. Three years ago. He takes a closer look at the seven pictures of the two men. One is from a month before the incident, one two weeks before, another a year before, eight months before, five months before, seven weeks before, eleven months before – they’re all from various points in the year before the incident, but there are absolutely none from after.

The doctor leans back against the kitchen table, before changing his mind and sliding a chair close to the board so he could sit down and examine all of Sherlock's notes. The article right under was titled BLOOD FOR BLOOD.

_Six months ago, when widow Candace Summer Steele called 999 to report a shooting in her household, no one suspected that the wife would have shot her own husband._

_Daniel Wilbert Steele (aged 49; now deceased) was found by members of the police in the Steele household six months ago. According to Mrs. Steele, she and her daughters had been out shopping at the mall that day, and after dropping the kids off at her sister's for the night, she had come home to find her husband shot._

_New evidence has arisen in court though! DNA testing has come back, and Mrs. Steele's fingerprints were found on the murder weapon! There was also testimony from an anonymous person who had overheard the event on a phone call that Mr. Steele had placed. The new evidence found Mrs. Steele completely guilty by the entire jury, and she has been sentenced to twenty-five to life imprisonment._

_“I won't be in here forever!” Mrs. Steele (age 45) angrily told our reporter before she was taken away. “The Napoleon of crime will set me free! Do you hear me?! I won't be held here forever!”_

_Her two children will be taken under the care of her sister, who didn't have any comment when we questioned her._

John takes a deep breath, shaking his head. Honestly, people are crazy. But there's a red string linking that article to a picture, and John's eyes follow the line. The picture is one taken from a crime scene – there’s a woman lying on the ground of an old wooden floor, and there's a familiar redhead crouching over her.

He quickly checks the date of the news article. Four years ago today. The pictures (there are four; all different angles of the woman's body) are all dated six months after the article. Underneath is a scrap of lined paper, neat loopy letters written underneath. Oh. That must be Sherlock's writing.

The detective has some _fine_ handwriting.

He leans closer and looks over the notes. Found at St. Louise. Accommodation for the homeless. Gunshot wound to the back of the head. Bee tattoo on left shoulder. Bruises on sides. Dirty knees.

John tilts his head. That situation sounds awfully familiar. The description of how the body was found. Gunshot wound in the back of the head – oh!

He blinks, leaning back in the chair. That's how Mary's killer... that George R. Stevens... that's how he had been found. Buried in the backyard with a gunshot wound to the head and mud caked onto his knees. Someone purposely killed this Candace Steele. She'd been executed.

John takes in another deep breath, his eyes flickering over the pictures. Besides the one with Dominick leaning over the body, the other three are more focused. One depicts the bee tattoo on her shoulder – and the tattoo is done in such a way that it reminds John of the bees from Winnie the Poo. One of the photographs is of her face. She wound have been a lovely woman in life: long blonde hair, green eyes, dimples in her cheeks.

He can't help but wonder what would cause her to kill her husband. And why she should be found dead six months later – let alone found dead in a place that's not the jail she was held at.

Why break someone out of prison and then kill them? Wouldn't it just be best to let them stay in prison for the rest of their life? It doesn't seem to make much sense to him.

His eyes float around the board again, catching onto another news article. VANISHED OR VAMOOSE?

_The search for missing person Lucas Duffy (age 65) has finally come to an end. The old man, reported by his wife Elnora (age 39) two weeks ago, still hasn't been found – but his car has._

_When Elnora contacted the police and told them her husband was missing, the only reasoning for her claim was that her husband's car was missing, and he hadn't come home from a doctor's appointment that took place eight hours before her claim._

_Today, the missing car was found parked down by the River Thames, and blood was splattered all over the driver's wheel and seat. DNA testing has confirmed that this is Mr. Duffy's blood._

_“Mr. Duffy wasn't murdered or killed in some sort of accident.” An anonymous detective remarked. “It's too neatly done. Exactly a pint of blood on the seat? No body to be found? The car pushed into the River Thames? They are the perfect conditions for a set up. Have you seen his wife? There's no way that this wasn't done in a way for her to gain his fortune. I bet you fifty quid that Mr. Duffy is sitting high and mighty somewhere in the Bahamas right now.”_

_Despite the concerns pressed by the detective, Mr. Lucas Duffy was pronounced legally dead earlier this morning by the members of the police._

_“It's such a horrid event,” The now widowed Elnora Duffy informed us through her tears. “I loved my husband so much. I don't know how I'll ever live without him.”_

_Grieving, the young woman is due to inherit her husband's fortune of nearly ten million euros, and she is set to obtain the deed to the estate she and her husband had been living on for the past two years._

John's lips tweak in the slightest smile. Anonymous detective. Every brisk word in that quote had Sherlock's name written all over it. He checks the date on the article – five years ago. Had Sherlock been working for the police five years ago? The bloke couldn't have been more than eighteen or nineteen six years ago. He'd have to ask Sherlock about that.

From that article, there are red strings that force John's eyes to follow through to a picture of who must be Lucas Duffy. There's a picture of him by himself, him with the woman who must be his wife, and a picture of him shaking hands with a rather plain looking man in a suit.

John reaches forward and his fingers brush along the edges of the photographs, flipping them up. Underneath is a list of business associates – name, phone numbers, addresses of different people that (John is only assuming) were close to Mr. Duffy.

Sherlock would make a very effective stalker.

John shakes his head, licking his lower lip. He glances about the kitchen and gets up from his seat to fetch his coffee mug from the table. His lips twist into a grimace when he takes a sip of the liquid. Cold.

After dumping out the cold coffee in the sink, John sets the kettle up and starts making some tea. He debates over changing out of the pajamas, but he decides that another half hour or so won't hurt. He'll just finish reading the board and then he'll change.

Maybe he'll rent a movie. Make some popcorn. Enjoy a day off. Maybe he would text Jamie; see what she's up to today.

They'd texted a few times back and forth since he'd been to her apartment, but they hadn't actually met in person. He thinks she's a bit sad he didn't take up the offer to room with her.

But honestly – how does one compare with Sherlock Holmes?

Once he has a cup of tea warm in his hands, John walks back over to his seat and returns to searching through the articles. WHO DUN IT?

_Last night, the body of Marissa Kerr (age 21) was found raped and stabbed to death on the beach of River Thames._

_Police suspect her boyfriend, Garret Compton (age 25), as the rapist and possibly the murderer. But here's the twist:_

_Garret Compton was found dead alongside his girlfriend!_

_The young man, who worked alongside Ms. Kerr at a local winery, was found dead due to a gunshot wound to the back of the head._

_“We currently don't have any leads on the murderer,” Informed Detective Inspector Lestrade in a press release. “But our team of analysts is working hard on the case, and we’ll let the public know when we come up with something concrete. In the meantime, just be safe when you’re walking around at night.”_

_Of course, this only begs the question: if Marissa Kerr was murdered by her boyfriend – who murdered her boyfriend?_

John leans back in his seat, sipping at his tea and letting his brain mull over the information. The date on the article is from roughly a year ago – and it’s far too similar to what happened to Mary for him to ignore. He can see why Sherlock would have put this article on the board.

And then his eyes catch on the name Carl Powers.

SWIMMER SUNK LIKE STONES

_Tragedy struck the London swimming pool last week when Carl Powers (age 11) drowned in a freak accident. The young boy was visiting the pool with his school for a swimming event._

_“Carl was a brilliant boy.” Remarked his swim coach. “He was a marvelous swimmer, and it’s such a shame that he’s been deprived from the rest of his life.”_

John didn’t want to read anymore. He takes another sip of his tea, adjusting his weight in his seat. His eyes flicker all over the articles, absorbing all the links and strings and where everything fits – but he’s not really sure of the link. To him, they just look like a bunch of random crimes.

“Did you figure out the link?”

John looks up at the deep voice behind him, turning around in his seat to see Sherlock standing on the other side of the kitchen counter, dressed in his usual flowing coat, blue scarf and tight as sin purple shirt. He licks his lower lip and raises his cup to his lips, sipping at the liquid.

The blonde shakes his head. “No, I can’t see anything linking them. They’re just a couple of bizarre crimes that have occurred over the past five years. Well,” He pauses, and turns around, fingers brushing against the article on Carl Powers. “All of them but this one. This one is from thirteen years ago.”

Sherlock’s lips tweak slightly. “Bees.”

“Bees?” John repeats, raising a skeptical eyebrow at the detective. “How on earth do bees connect these? I mean,” He turns back to the articles, and he points to the one about the woman who killed her husband. “This one, this woman… Candace Steele, she had a tattoo of a bee on her shoulder, but other than that…” He trails off, shaking his head.

His eyes turn back on Sherlock. “Did you investigate that case? Dominick is in this picture here.”

The detective doesn’t flinch – and John doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad sign. With Sherlock, it could be either. Sherlock walks forward, moving to stand beside John, the slightest of smile on his lips. “No, I wasn’t allowed to investigate that case. He took pictures for me.”

John doesn’t say anything, just turns his head so his eyes can watch the man. Sherlock smiles ever to slightly, fingers gesturing to point to the oldest of the articles: VANISHED OR VAMOUSE. “I hope you realized that the anonymous detective in this article was me.”

The blonde chuckles, nodding his head. “Who else could it have been?”

A breathy laugh leaves through Sherlock’s nose, and he nods his head. “I was barely twenty when that case happened. I was so frustrated that the police couldn’t see what was going on that I talked to a reporter and let them know what I thought.”

He drops his hand, long fingers sliding into the pocket of his coat. “Lestrade wasn’t amused. He didn’t let me go on scenes again until I finished my degree up.”

John blinks in surprise. “You actually went to University?”

Sherlock’s lips tweak and he glances down at John. “Surprised?” He chuckles, and takes John’s tea from his hand, raising it to his own lips and taking a sip. He blanches, and John just rolls his eyes – figures that the detective would need two lumps of sugar in his tea (and milk) where John took his straight.

“It’s alright, most people are surprised.” Sherlock takes another sip of John’s tea, every twist of his lips showing John that the detective hated the taste, but went right on drinking it anyway. Idiot. The darker haired man leans his hip against the kitchen counter, eyes on John. “It was a bore really. Only reason I went was because Mummy begged me.”

First talk of some sort of a family. That’s a bit of a breakthrough. And he was talking a bit about his past. Also good behavior.

“I have a bachelors degree in Criminology.” Sherlock’s eyes dart to John, sipping at the stolen tea as he does so. “If you were curious.”

John chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief at how ridiculous his flatmate is. “You were saying something about bees?”

Sherlock’s eyes light up. “Bees. Right!” He passes John his tea back (and it’s almost all gone) and claps his hands, rubbing them together and pressing his forefingers against his lips. “A bee is any hymenopterous insect of the superfamily Apoidea, including social and solitary species of several families, as the bumblebees, honeybees and so on. They are closely related to wasps and ants, and are primarily known for their role in pollination, and for producing products such as honey and beeswax.”

The blonde rolls his eyes. “Thanks for the lesson professor. Can we get onto the relevance now?”

The detective narrows his eyes ever so slightly at John, and he steeples his fingers under his chin, staring at the man. “Did you know, that in the seventeenth century, bees were known as a symbol of immortality and resurrection?”

John leans back in his seat, lifting his tea to his lips before drowning the rest of the liquid. “Sorry prof, been a bit behind on my bee history reading.”

Sherlock lets out a long, deep breath, and the glare that the detective sends him is more than enough to give the doctor the message that he just needs to tone the sass down a bit. It’s fun though… so… message might not be heeded.

“On the 10th of July, in the year 1804 in France, there was a degree that stipulated,” Sherlock pauses just a moment to tilts his head slightly at John, making sure the blonde is paying attention. “Stated that the coat of arms of the emperor should be: ‘d’asur à l’aigle à l’antique d’or, empiétant un finder du même.’”

Oh, _fuck._

John just sits there for a moment, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He’d never been much of a language bloke – but hearing those words slip out of Sherlock’s mouth, the French words as graceful as a fluent speaker and as sexy as flowing silk, John just can’t help but get turned on. Badly.

He crosses his legs over, looking up at the detective and trying not to give away his problem in his facial expression. Thankfully, Sherlock turns to face the articles, and his fingers are under his chin as he continues speaking. “Roughly, that translates to ‘azure with a gold, ancient eagle clutching a thunderbolt of the same colour.’ Yellow, John.” Blue eyes flicker over to him, and then flicker back. “Also on that coat of arms, there were bees.”

“Alright, so? There were bees on the coat of arms for the emperor of France back two hundred years ago.” John shakes his head, not really understanding what the detective is driving at. “What relevance does that have to this case?”

“It has every relevance John!” Sherlock cries, thrusting out a hand to point forcefully to the article about Candace Steele and her crime. “Who was the emperor of France in 1804?”

John blinks a moment, his eyes lighting onto one specific phrase from the article. _The Napoleon of crime will set me free!_ He leans back in his chair, his mouth slightly agape. “Napoleon.”

“Precisely!” Sherlock exclaims, a smile growing wide on his face. John snorts and shakes his head. “Wait, so you know who the emperor of France was in 1804, but you don’t know that the Earth rotates around the Sun?”

The detective sniffs, rolling his eyes and letting out an annoyed breath. That lovely tidbit had come up earlier in the week when John had been doing some light scientific reading, and Sherlock had questioned the purpose in his activity. “This is relevant to the current issue. The fact that our planet rotates around the sun had no impact on my life, or on my work.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “The Earth could spin around the moon, or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, and it wouldn’t matter because it doesn’t influence anything in my work!”

John raises his hands in defense against the words. “Alright, no need to get so defensive.” John pushes himself off his seat, turning around and walking further into the kitchen to pour himself another cup of tea. He nibbles on his lower lip, filling his mind with his usual killjoy images to get rid of the boner that was threatening to show. Really, getting aroused by Sherlock's intellect wasn't going to be productive for anything. Especially since it would cause John to be horny twenty-four/seven – because really, the detective barely ever stops sounding smart.

“Do you understand now?” Sherlock asks, crossing his arms and tapping his foot impatiently at the blonde. John throws him a withering gaze, letting the warm liquid pool inside of his cup. “Around all the buzzing in my head,” He smirks at his next bee joke – honestly he won’t be surprised if he gets hits for making another sassy remark. “I understand how Candace and the bee relate to Napoleon, but I don't understand how that links to Moriarty, much less the rest of the crimes.”

Sherlock sighs heavily when John finds his seat again, those long fingers drumming restlessly against the kitchen counter. “Sadly, you see but you don't really _observe_. Look,” Sherlock's fingers dart forward towards the board, pointing directly to pictures of Garret Compton, the man who was shot in the back of the head last year, and Elnora Duffy, the young widow who inherited her husband's fortune. “What similarities do you notice?”

John resists the urge to rolls his eyes. He almost feels like he's back in primary school, looking at pairs of simplified pictures with instructions to 'spot the differences', only now he's hunting for similarities. With pursued lips, John's eyes flicker between the two pictures.

The ones that Sherlock had pointed to were fairly plain pictures. The one that depicted Ms. Elnora Duffy was a close up of her crossing the street in jogging clothes, and the one of Garret Compton was one before he had been killed where he was strolling hand in hand with the girl Marissa Kerr down a beach, both of them in their swim trunks.

“Do I want to know how you got these pictures?” John asks, his eyes glancing up at the detective. The man smirks, and the doctor feels the gentle brush of fingers against his shoulder.

“I can be very persuasive.” Sherlock purrs in John's ear, and the doctor feels a tongue lap at the curl of his ear, sending a shiver straight through his body.

Um. Similarities. What is he looking for? Something similar... There's nothing really striking about either photograph. If John had passed either character in the street, he probably wouldn't have spared them a second glance. But Sherlock has to be going somewhere with this... what's the point in bringing up the bees if it isn't a pattern? One occurrence doesn't make it a pattern, and it certainly wouldn't be something the detective was so insistent about.

And then John's eyes narrow in on their shoulders. His eyes pop slightly, and his lips part in a soft gasp of breath. “They both have bee tattoos.” He murmurs softly, gazing in amazement, wondering how long Sherlock had poured over the fuzzy and pixelated photographs before he noticed the detail. Of course, knowing Sherlock, he would have figured it all out within minutes.

Sherlock nods his head, and his fingers slip into his jacket pocket. He drags out another photograph – much cleaner, crisper, and newer – and shows it to John. The doctor instantly grimaces when he recognizes the face of the dead body. George R. Stevens. The man who murdered Mary.

The detective doesn't say anything, but John knows why he's showing him the picture without needing any words. His eyes zone in on the dead man's shoulder – and sure enough, there's a small tattoo of a bee.

He lets out a breath, his eyes lighting onto Sherlock's. “Alright, that's a bit suspicious, but people get similar tattoos all the time.”

“They have no relation John!” Sherlock cries out, grabbing a thumbtack and stabbing the picture of Stevens to his board. “All of these people – none of them have any friends in common, no colleagues in common, no family in common. They're all perfectly complete strangers.”

John takes another sip of his tea, letting the warm taste dance on his tongue for a few moments before he speaks. “Okay, let's say I buy your bee theory. All these people are linked through a mysterious bee tattoo. Why? For what purpose? And if we're following bees – ” He gestures to a few of the other articles – CAT CRIME ON CHESHIRE, SWIMMER SUNK LIKE STONES, BANK ROBBERY END IN THE KILLING OF ONE OF LONDON'S FINEST. “Then how do these relate?”

The detective lets out an impatient breath, fingers restlessly tapping against each other. “The coat of arms John. Azure with a gold, ancient eagle. The coat depicts two animals – a bee and an eagle.” He stands up a bit straighter, and those jittery fingers steal John's tea once again, and Sherlock's face morphs into one of disgust. Still no sugar. “Take a look at the remaining pictures and tell me what you see.”

John rolls his eyes as Sherlock takes his tea into the kitchen, fetching sugar and milk, heavily altering his drink by adding the substances. He shakes his head silently and turns to look at the pictures. From the article on Dominick's death, the bank robbery, there only picture is a grainy black and white photo of three masked men in the middle of a bank – most likely taken with one of the security cameras. Sherlock must have superhuman eyes in order to see any details in that photograph.

He turns his eyes towards the store robbery article. There was a picture of the store in the article, but the red string Sherlock had all over the board brought his eyes to the mug shots of the two men. Daron Davis and Johnny McCoy. Both were gruff looking, and seemed to be teasing the camera with in their shots. The pictures were old – at least six or seven years old. But there was no mistaking it. Since both men were in sleeveless shirts, John could see the small tattoo of an eagle on both of their upper arms.

He swallows hard, taking in a deep breath. Sherlock smirks as he walks over to John. “You might want to take another look at Mr. Lucas Duffy's picture.”

Taking the man's advice – and feeling a lot like a puppet being led along on strings – John’s eyes follow the red lines to a few various pictures of the dead (or missing) old man. Sure enough: eagle tattoo on his arm.

“So,” John bites his lower lip, trying to solve at least one small mystery in his head at a time. “So, Lucas Duffy had the tattoo of an eagle, and his wife had the tattoo of a bee? He goes missing, and a few weeks later his car turns him, and he's pronounced dead. She inherits everything.” He tilts his head up at the detective, his eyes probing the blue ones that were glued to his own face. “They were working together then, weren't they?” But he still doesn't know how, or for what purpose.

Sherlock nods his head curtly, the slight of a smile on his face. “I do believe Mr. Lucas Duffy is safely living out the rest of his days in the Bahamas with his mistress while his wife enjoys a very large fortune.”

John shakes his head, a smile widening on his face. It was some puzzle. A puzzle spanned over five years, with the evidence right before John's eyes from all of Sherlock's research. “But, but what about the bank robbery? I can barely see anything in that picture.”

The detective makes a muted noise of displeasure, and vanishes from John's side for a moment. He turns around in his chair (Sherlock had stolen his tea from him, and really John had given up any hope of getting it back), watching as the detective grabs a magnifying glass off of the messy dining room table.

“Miracle you manage to keep track of anything.” John mutters when Sherlock presents him with the tool, and the detective smirks. “I keep track of the important things just fine John.”

The blonde lets out a huff and leans towards the picture, raising the glass to his eye and searching through the lens. It takes his eyes a few moments to sort through the grainy details (even with the aid of the magnifier), but he does see the hint of something tattooed onto the arm of one of the masked killer. The only one who happened to not be wearing sleeves.

“Three men robbed that bank that day. Escaped with two and a half million euros.” Sherlock starts, his voice tight, and John turns in his chair to see the detective with his arms crossed, hip pressing against the table, and his lips drawn in a tight line as swirling eyes focused on the photograph like an archery target. “All masked. They left no fingerprints, no hairs, no skin cells, nothing that could possible give a DNA clue to their identity. The only thing was this one man, who has a tattoo of an eagle on his shoulder.”

Sherlock shifts the position of his shoulders slightly, taking a sip of the tea, his lips melting into a warmer expression at the taste. “It's a fuzzy picture, but I would stake my life on the fact that his accomplices had matching tattoos as well.”

The blonde lets out a breath, counting all the details up in his head, just to summarize. So there were eagle tattoos that belonged to Daron Davis and Johnny McCoy, the burglars on Cheshire Street, as well as Lucas Duffy, the vanished millionaire, and the one masked (at least one of them) man from the robbery where Dominick was killed.

Then there are the bee tattoos. Those belong to Elnora Duffy, widow of Lucas Duffy, George R. Stevens, the man who killed Mary, Candace Steele, the woman who killed her husband and tried to get away with it, and Garret Compton, the man who raped and killed his girlfriend before being executed himself.

That gives it a total of four and four for each. However...

“That doesn't explain Carl Powers.” John finally utters in exasperation, letting out a frustrated sigh as he looks over at Sherlock, half wishing the man would just tell him what was going on – but the blonde is kind of enjoying going through the whole process step by step. It really makes him see just how brilliant Sherlock is for noticing all of this on his own. “Nor does it explain how Napoleon relates to Moriarty.”

He pauses, folding his hands in his lap. “So far, we know that Moriarty caused Carl Powers death, because he revealed that to us in his letter. So we know that those two things connect. But then...” He gestures to the board, his eyes never leaving those intoxicating eyes. “We've got five news articles from over the past five years that all link up through the name of Napoleon and a few tattoos. But what exactly connects those two patterns?”

Sherlock snorts, and shakes his head. “You obviously didn't read the rest of the article on Carl Powers.” But before John can turn his head to look, the detective waves a hand. “I'll summarize it for you. I was there, you know.”

No, he didn't know that.

“Carl Powers was an exceptional swimmer, that much was obvious. But he was also a bit of a history nut. It was his passion. He'd told a few of his teachers that if swimming didn't pan out for him, then he would be a historian.”

“Ambitious kid.” John mutters, and Sherlock shoots him a silencing glare.

“The point is,” The detective steeples his fingers underneath his chin, those eyes fiery and focused on his own, trapping him in that gaze like a fly trapped in amber. “That Carl Powers was a nerd for big figures in history. One of them being Napoleon.” Those fingers press against the detective's soft lips, and John tries to pretend he doesn't wish they were his own lips. “It's entirely plausible, that being so high off this murder, our Moriarty would have taken Carl Power's favourite little obsession, and turned it into a name for himself. His first murder after all. Why not?” Lips tweak into a triumphant grin. “Moriarty, the Napoleon of crime. Has a rather nice ring to it, no?”

John just shakes his head, letting out a breath. “That was.... that was bloody fantastic. What you did.” The whole ‘Napoleon of crime’ nickname gave John a bit of the creeps, but just the fact that Sherlock searched through at least six years worth of crimes to piece this whole thing together and make all those deductions… really, nothing short of brilliant.

Sherlock's eyes dart away, and John thinks he sees the faintest hint of a blush around the detective's cheeks – but it must have been a trick of the light, for when Sherlock's eyes are back on his own, the colour of his face is perfectly normal. Well, as normal as Sherlock's face gets. The man is already a bit pale to begin with.

He's surprised when Sherlock presses his cup of tea back into his hands, and he blinks up at the darker haired man. Their eyes connect, and John can practically feel the intensity of the gaze – heat curling up in his stomach, a shiver running down his spine, the air around him pressurized, pushing them together, making the space around them feel very, very small.

His tongue snakes out of his mouth, wetting his sudden dry lips. Sherlock's eyes catch on the movement, and those emerald eyes flash with something dark – and then lips are against his.

But it's not a hot, frenzied kiss like John had expected. No, Sherlock's lips slide against his own, soft and supple, the movement calm and controlled. The detective delivers the barest of caresses, which only leaves John's body yearning for more, aching for another touch. A tongue splits their lips apart, tracing John's lower lip with an erotic slowness that practically has the doctor trembling.

Then the touch is gone, and it takes John's eyes a few moments to flutter open. When his vision opens up to the world again, Sherlock is sipping at his tea like nothing had happened. “You know John, I would stake a good Chinese meal on the fact that Harvey Dustin McFarland has either a tattoo of a bee or an eagle on his shoulder.”

John swallows. “Sorry, who?”

Sherlock turns on him, lips disapproving, but eyes twinkling with mirth. Bastard. He knew exactly how much that kiss had affected John. Damn it – it was like the detective was figuring out John's control system, learning his manual, and then flipping the exact switches that would leave John gasping and hungering for more.

“Harvey Dustin McFarland. Remember? The man who killed himself with the cyanide pill?”

John lets out a breath of acknowledgement. The day Sherlock had crossed dressed as a woman and took John to a club, and they'd danced so close together John had practically felt like his entire body was on fire.

“Care to go pay our dear departed friend a visit?” Sherlock asks, brimming with a certain kind of vigor, drowning the rest of the tea before placing the cup on the kitchen counter.

“A visit?” John asks skeptically, glancing down at himself in Sherlock's clothes.

“To the morgue.” Sherlock's eyes light up, and he pushes John towards the hall, a light tap to get the blonde moving. “Go on, go get dressed before I change my mind and decide to dress you myself.”

John rolls his eyes, his face flushing. “Why do I get the feeling that you meant _un_ dressing?”

Sherlock simply winks at the blonde before turning and letting his gaze drift all over his board of notes. John smiles slightly, and starts to walk down the hallway. He pauses, turning around to ask the detective if he wants his clothes back – and his smile falters into a pitying grimace as he catches Sherlock with the photograph of Dominick in his hands, the saddest expression on his face.

John turns around and leaves without another word, feeling terribly insignificant.

 


	8. This City is Contagious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This City is Contagious with Lyrics: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_NcFlHtn9pA

Sherlock swallows heavily, his eyes flickering over the photographed crouched head of his dead husband. He'd put this picture behind the others when he'd hung up the pictures of Candace Steele's body, but John must have moved it when he was looking through the evidence.

His fingers curl around the locket hidden beneath his shirt, his heart heavy. The wave of sorrow that crashes over his body is a bit daunting, and for a moment he can do nothing but stare at red curls, wishing the ducked head would lift and look up at him.

He takes a deep breath and carries the photograph over to the kitchen, his footsteps leading him to the trashcan. Almost in a bit of a daze, his long fingers rip the photograph in half, and then in half again, and he tosses the scraps into the garbage.

No time for mourning. He's had two years to mourn. Now is the time to find this Moriarty, and get revenge.

He hears footsteps stomping down the staircase (honestly, John has the loudest footfalls he's ever heard – reminds him of when Mycroft and he were still boys; his brother could never sneak up on him) and he quickly turns around, stepping into the living room and fixing his scarf.

Sherlock smiles at John when he enters the living room, dressed in respectable trousers, shoes, and yet another hideous jumper that no doubt his mum made for him.

And it's ever such a crime that that jumper hides the delicious cuts in John's body.

“Alright, ready to go.” John informs the detective, grabbing his coat from the hanger and slipping it on over his shoulders. Sherlock nods curtly, his eyes tracing down the blonde's body for a moment, before he strides down the stairs, leaving the flat and hailing a cab.

He pretends not to notice the sly glances John sends him while they're sitting in the cab, opting for staring out the window instead. People walk by on the sidewalk, busy with their lives, oblivious to the churning and dramatic worlds of the others around them.

This town, it never sleeps. Even in the wee hours of the morning, there are still people bustling about their business, cars honking down the streets of London. With all its people and problems, it's not surprising that this town can hardly breathe.

They arrive at Bart's without a single word being exchanged between the two of them. Sherlock hops out of the cab, long legs striding towards the building – leaving John behind to pay the driver. But the blonde quickly catches up, right behind the detective as he strides through double sides doors.

They take the stairs down to the morgue, and behind him, Sherlock hears John chuckle. He turns his head, raising an eyebrow at the blonde. “Something funny?”

John shakes his head, a smile on his face as both of their steps come to a halt. “Not really. I was just thinking about how you tried to seduce me last time we were on these stairs.”

Sherlock's lips tweak, and he takes a step up the stairs so he's standing closer to John. “Do you want to be seduced on these stairs?”

“ _Can_ you seduce me on these stairs?” John asks back, tilting his head up to Sherlock, exposing the lines of his neck to the detective as the blonde looks at him with a teasing smirk.

Sherlock's lips form a cocky smirk. He knew John had liked that kiss back in the kitchen. And the detective is more than ready to ravish the blonde all over again.

Sherlock steps closer, John's hip against the rail of the stairs. He hears the doctor inhale a sharp breath as he ducks his head, lips barely brushing against the line of the man's jaw. His tongue flicks out, licking the skin and feeling the slightest pull of stubble against his tongue.

His lips migrate to John's ear, teeth nibbling against the lobe, eliciting a breathless gasp from the blonde. Sherlock's fingers brush against the waistband of John's trousers, barely touching skin in the process.

“You have no idea,” Sherlock whispers into John's ear, his voice deep and heady. “How hot you make me.” His lips form around a patch of John's skin by his ear, suckling the skin, lapping with his tongue and drawing out delicious breathless moans from the doctor.

His fingers slide around John's waist, slipping slightly below the beltline, fingers barely gracing John's arse. “I want you,” He whispers into John's ear, licking the curl of his earlobe. “I'd take you right now... yank down your trousers and your pants, push you up against a wall, or maybe the rail... Or perhaps even the stairs themselves...”

He trails off, nipping at John's earlobe, his mouth sliding down John's neck, licking at his jugular vein, pressing hot, open mouthed kisses to the collarbone peeking out of his jumper. “I'd slick you up, my fingers inside you, pumping until you're writhing and begging for me.”

His lips follow the curve of John's neck up to his other ear, where he licks at the sensitive spot just as his hairline. He feels John shiver beneath him, and he tightens his grip on the blonde's waist in response.

“And then when you were nice and prepared, and dying for release,” He licks John's earlobe, fingers sliding around the doctor's waist, moving to his front and reaching down, palming at the erection in John's pants, smirking at the gasp that leaves those lips.

“I'd spread your legs wide...” He kisses the underside of John's jaw, fingers outlining the bulge in his pants. “And I'd push into you, holding completely still until you were writhing below me, desperate for friction.”

His lips arrive at John's chin, and he licks at the stubble there, lifting his eyes to heated blue orbs, the doctor’s chest heaving beneath him. Sherlock’s tongue flicks out, licking his own lips hungrily at the man. “And then I’d fuck you until you screamed.”

John’s fingers grab at the collar of his coat, and the detective is yanked down for a violent kiss, teeth clashing in the desire to get closer. Sherlock’s hands leave John’s pants, winding around his waist and pulled the doctor flush against his body. Fingers wind into his hair, tugging him down harder.

Sherlock pushes John back against the staircase, pressing against him. The doctor’s legs spread slightly, and he stands between them, grinding their hips together in hard circles, drawing a moan out of John’s mouth and into his own. Their tongues thrust against each other, their chests heaving with deep breaths.

The blonde gasps into his mouth when Sherlock’s hands grab at John’s arse, squeezing in need as their hips buck together, blood boiling with desire.

A door opens.

John’s hands are on his chest, pushing him back. Their lips break apart with a wet smack. John’s eyes dart to the flight of stairs above them as a doctor in a lab coat walks down, his shoes clicking softly against the floor. The doctor walks past them; nodding politely at the two men before retreating down the rest of the stairs. Neither John nor Sherlock move until the door on the flight below them has clicked shut.

The blonde lets out a breath, and Sherlock smirks, liking how red John’s lips are from their kissing. He licks his lower lip, grinning at the man. John huffs, rolling his eyes and getting off of the rail, adjusting his trousers. Sherlock’s eyes dart down, chuckling at the hardness that’s evident in his crotch.

“Aren’t we going to see a dead body?” John mutters, fixing his jacket. Sherlock smirks, and strides past John, continuing down the stairs. He hears the doctor following him, and smiles as he pushes open the doors of the morgue.

“Oh, Sherlock.”

The detective flashes a smile at the redhead. “Hello Molly. Lovely to see you this morning.”

Her lips quirk in an awkward smile, and Sherlock watches as her eyes dart towards the man walking in behind him, the smile slipping off of her face. He doesn’t have to glance at John to know that Molly is seeing the swollen lips and purple marks by John’s ears. And he knows she’s smart enough to connect the dots.

“Harvey Dustin McFarland.” Sherlock announces the name loudly, looking at Molly with bright eyes. “Can we see him?”

She nods her head slightly, tucking a strand of her long hair behind her ear. He gives her a comforting smile. “Did you do something with your hair? It looks exquisite. Frames your face nicely.”

Molly smiles, fingers twirling her hair a bit. “Yeah, I did.” There’s a slight pause before she gives him a slight nod. “Thanks.”

With that, Molly walks over to the chambers and pulls one of the slabs out, revealing the naked, dead body of Harvey Dustin McFarland to the detective and the doctor. She gives them both a smile – but it’s really more of a grimace. “I’ll just, um, I’m going to go for an early lunch.”

“Thanks Molly.” John tells her softly, even as Sherlock is already striding over to the body without another word. He can hear the two of them exchange a few words about work, and then the door to the morgue closes behind Molly, and John is back next to his side.

“Look, right here.” Sherlock murmurs, fingers gesturing to McFarland’s left shoulder. The tattoo of a little bumble bee. His lips tweak into a smirk. Hot on the right track.

“You are brilliant.”

The detective raises his eyes to John’s blue ones, the orbs boring into his face. “Really, I never would have been able to see that pattern.”

His lips tweak. “I’m a consulting detective. It’s my business to know what other people don’t know.”

John chuckles, a smile on those lips. “Oh, just take the compliment.” He leans forward over the corpse, and presses their lips together in a soft embrace. Unfortunately, the doctor pulls away before Sherlock can deepen the kiss.

Blue eyes smirk at him, and Sherlock smiles. “You know,” He starts, his eyes glancing over towards the door. “There’s a lock on the morgue. Molly’s off on her lunch break. Won’t be back for a half hour or so...”

John rolls his eyes and leans back, standing up straight. “I am not letting you fuck me in the middle of a morgue.” His fingers rest on his waist, and Sherlock smirks, standing up and sliding the dead body back into its containment. “Besides, you don't have any lube, or protection.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at the statement. He closes the door on the containment for McFarland's body, and he takes a step closer to John. “Oh, don't I?” His voice is deep as he comes to stand in front of John, invading his personal bubble space – although the doctor doesn't seem to be minding too much. That blonde head of hair tilts up at him, and John's face registers surprise. “Do you?”

The detective bites his lower lip, his eyes darting down to John's lips, watching for a moment as a breath slithers past those rosy lips, still red from the force of Sherlock's bruising kiss earlier. And Sherlock would like nothing more than to devour that mouth all over again.

The room is so quiet, Sherlock could practically hear John's heavy swallow. “Well, you know, I suppose some snogging wouldn't hurt.”

Mhm. Maybe Sherlock ought to cry more. Ever since yesterday out in the rain, John has been ever so much more willing to engage in physical activities. The shower. His bed. The snogging on the staircase. Interesting tidbit of information to just tuck away.

His lips tweak into a smirk, and he bends his head, slowly closing the gap between their lips, the air heavy around them as Sherlock rests one hand on the cold of the containment unit. The detective's other hand barely brushes against John's waist. Their eyes stay connected until Sherlock's lips are barely hovering over John's, and the blonde's eyes flutter closed, his head tilting up as he waits for the touch.

Sherlock's tongue flicks out of his mouth, licking John's lower lip without their lips touching. He bends a little closer, their lips touching in the barest of touches, like the feel of angel wings against skin. The feather light touch seems to fire up every nerve in Sherlock's body, his heart pounding heavily in his chest even as he hears the blood pounding in his ears. He can feel John's chest heaving beneath his own, and it's strange that they're only touching through a single hand on John's waist, and the barest of caresses of their lips, and Sherlock is so heavily aroused.

Eventually, John decides he's had enough of the teasing, and the blonde leans forward, solidifying the brush of lips into a firm kiss, pressure and touch that both of their bodies were craving. Hands find their way into Sherlock's curls, tugging him closer. Sherlock's hands respond with enthusiasm, sliding around John's waist and curling their bodies together, pressed together head to toe.

Sherlock forces John's mouth apart with his tongue, meeting John's in the middle and swirling it around, licking and lapping at the taste of tea in his mouth. Together, they engage in a slow and erotic dance, circling each other, eyes caught on the prize.

The detective's hands find their way under John's shirt, and they slide up, brushing against nipples as he pushes John back into the containment unit so he doesn't have to hold the man with his hands. That way, his fingers are free to flick at John's nipples, extracting a moan that widens John's mouth further, and allows Sherlock to lick the inside of John's mouth, tasting tea and mint in one fell swoop.

John's hands seem to have revenge on their mind, for after tugging at his curls one more time, the warm digits slide down his back, fingernails scratching at Sherlock's back through his coat. An article of clothing that John clearly thinks Sherlock can do without when those warm surgeon's hands tug Sherlock's arms out of the coat.

The long coat falls to the floor, and John's hands are on Sherlock's back, scratching at his skin through his tight shirt, but the heat of the touch blazing a fire in its wake. Hands dip over Sherlock's trousers, grabbing at his arse, and the detective groans into John's mouth, responding with another grope of the doctor's arse. He can feel John's arousal working its way back up again, and the detective grinds their hips together, eager to get his reaction up to its full potential.

Sherlock's got a bit of a kink for fucking in places that... quite frankly aren't bed.

John groans at the friction, fingers fumbling at Sherlock's belt. The detective smirks against John's lips. “Thought you said you didn't want to get fucked in the morgue?”

The man scoffs against his lips, yanking the man down for a brutalizing kiss, their lips smashed together, wet and hungry. They break off for a gasp of air, and John's hands are yanking down Sherlock's trousers. “I'm still young.” The blonde whispers, blue blinking up at green. “And you know what?”

John's shoulders shimmy slightly, leaning close to brush his chest against Sherlock's, and closer still to let his tongue trace up the path of Sherlock's neck from the skin peeking out of his tight button up shirt, all the way up his Adam's apple to his jawline. “The idea of getting caught with your cock up my arse is a bit kinky.”

Sherlock growls, lips attacking John's again with a brutal force, pushing him up against the containment until, his fingers quickly stripping John of his clothes – trousers unbuttoned and yanked down to the ground, pants practically torn down his legs, that annoying jumper tugged off over John's head, separating their lips for one agonizing moment, before the jumper is thrown away to some corner of the floor and their lips are reacquainted with a frenzied passion.

“So,” Sherlock gasps against John's lips as the blonde drags the detective's pants down, so the two of them are matching with their trousers and pants clinging to their ankles. “You want to get fucked against the containment unit,” He pauses to nip his teeth at John's chin. “Against the table,” He pauses again to look directly into John's eyes, his teeth catching the man's lower lip and drawing it out slowly and seductively, his tongue sneaking out to lap at it before his teeth let it go. “Or would you like me to take you on the floor?”

John's fingers are back in Sherlock's hair, forcing the man down again, kissing him hard. Sherlock's fingers move to John's cock, grabbing his hard shaft and watching in utter delight as the contact breaks their kiss as the blonde's head is thrown back, hitting the back of the wall as his mouth unlatches as he lets out a loud moan of pleasure.

“You like that?” Sherlock whispers, his lips tracing John's jawline to his ear, his fingers slowly stroking the man's thick cock from base to head. “You like it when I'm touching you, don't you?” His tongue laps at John's earlobe. “You like my tongue in your mouth, don't you John?” He whispers, his voice deep and thick with arousal. “I bet you'd like my tongue in other places too.” A soft kiss to the spot behind John's ear that makes him whimper. Sherlock's fingers trace circles on John's head, precum coating his finger. “How would you like it in my mouth? Mh, John?”

Teeth nibble at his earlobe, and Sherlock's fingers utilize the precum from John's cock, sliding the moisture down John's shaft. “Your thick cock inside my mouth, hot and wet, just for you.” He bites down on John's earlobe, a bit hard from the sharp cry that falls from John's lips. Sherlock graces the area with tender baby kisses for the movement.

“John,” He whispers, his fingers still gently sliding down John's cock, ignoring his own in the process. “Listen, I won't do anything you don't want.”

Consent is sexy. Don't ever forget that. It's a lesson that Sherlock learned back when he was still in mourning, and he'd gone to a bar, got absolutely pissed, and tried to hook up with some guy. The guy was willing at first, but Sherlock had bit him a little too hard one time too many, and the guy decided he was done. Sherlock had tried to keep kissing him (and since they were both drunk they kept kissing) but it just wasn't as much fun knowing that the other guy wasn't in it. So Sherlock had left, and he'd made sure to stick to his consent rule.

“If I start to do something that makes you uncomfortable, or you want to stop, just say the word 'Peppermint' and I'll stop.” He presses a soft kiss to John's cheek, pausing with the ministrations of his hand for a moment in order to look deep into blue eyes. “Understand? The moment that word leaves your lips, I'll know that something is wrong, and I'll do whatever I can to make you feel more comfortable. Do you understand?”

John's lips spread into a soft smile. Those hands take Sherlock's face into his hands (and god that's a weird feeling – he can't remember the last time someone cupped his face like that) and the blonde leans forward to press their lips into a soft kiss.

“I understand Mr. Holmes.” John's lips twist in a smirk when he pulls back, his pupils blown wide, his eyes darkened with lust. “Now just get out that damn lube and fuck me, will you?”

“Bossy, aren't you?” Sherlock mutters back, leaning forward to crash their lips together again. John laughs against his lips, the sound muffled against his lips, but high and warm – and it almost throws Sherlock off for a moment.

Laughter. Not laughter at him (and god had that happened on more than one occasion) but laughter with him. Laughter and sex. Funny.... he hadn't experienced that combination since Dominick. For the past two years, sex has been all about fucking, and the raw heat, the desire to cum as fast and as hard as you can – and to make the best memories from it. New experiences, new tricks, new kinks.

But there hadn't been any laughter until that moment. And Sherlock feels an odd curl of warmth in his stomach – and he's not entirely sure that the feeling is associated with arousal.

He presses their lips tighter together, cutting off John's laughter for a few blissful moments of the wet smacking of lips and the obscene sounds of greedy tongues lapping up each other's taste.

Eventually though, their bodies press tight together, and Sherlock is pinning John to the wall, their hips circling each other. Their hot arousal is burning between them, and their mouths open wide in pants, desperate for more, to be closer. Sherlock's hands grab John by the shoulders, and he yanks the doctor down to the ground, laying him out on the cold floor on top of his jacket. His fingers quickly find the small tube of lube in his coat pocket, and the spare condom he keeps in a hidden pocket of his jacket – just in case he gets lucky. Like this.

He looks down at John as he draws both items out, and the man laughs, shaking his head. “Well, aren't you prepared? You know, I'd almost think you were planning on fucking me today.” Sherlock holds the condom between his teeth and winks at John, tearing the packaging open and quickly helping the condom escape from it's confines, his fingers slipping it over his own cock the moment it's free.

Sherlock squeezes lube out over his fingers, and he spreads out John's legs, fingers circling the blonde's hole before he pushes one finger inside. John moans in response, his eyes slipping shut as he enjoys the feeling. The detective grabs John's cock with his spare hand, touching him in long, slow strokes as he slips a second finger inside of his arse.

John's legs are practically trembling when Sherlock slips a third finger inside of him, pumping his digits inside of the blonde's arse, searching and probing at his prostate even as his other hand strokes him faster, squeezing at the base as he migrates to the head. The doctor's mouth is open in a pant, his chest heaving and his skin lined with sweat as he trembles from the touch. “Fu... Fuck, _Sherlock_.”

The moan causes the detective's lips to tweak into a smile, and he withdraws his fingers, coating the spare lube over his covered cock before he positions himself at John's entrance. He spreads the man's legs with his fingers, and then carefully, he pushes himself inside of John, until he's completely inside – a shuddering groan escaping from his lips at the tightness that surrounds him.

Beneath him, John is panting, and his hips buck, begging for movement, for motion. Sherlock simply smirks, his eyes darkened and heavy with lust on John's, watching as the blonde writhes. “Sherlock.... _please_. Ah, _fuck_ , I need you to move.”

“I told you I was going to have you begging for me.” Sherlock whispers in a husky voice, his fingers moving the position of John's legs so that they're hooked around Sherlock's shoulders. But he still doesn't move. Just waits in that position. “Come on John, beg for me.”

John gasps, a groan leaving his lips, and blue eyes flash open at him. The heated gaze that the doctor gives him could have melted plastic. “Sherlock, fuck me. Fuck me as hard as you can. _Own_ me right here on this morgue floor.”

Sherlock bites his lower lip – and he needs no further egging. His hands curl under John's arse, tilting the man's legs slightly for the best angle, and them he draws himself nearly completely out of John, before slamming back in hard, his balls bouncing against John's arse, before he pulls back and slams in again.

Again and again he slams into the man, a sheen sweat appearing on his forehead as he works, the muscles in his arms bulging as he keeps John's legs up. His whole body is heated, and the pressure is insane as he pounds himself inside of John, striking at John's prostrate every third or fourth hit, and eliciting moans from John that a porn star would be proud of.

Sadly, because Sherlock's hands are occupied with John's arse and his legs, it falls to the doctor to curl his fingers around his own cock, his hand violently jerking himself to the beat of Sherlock's hips slapping against his own – the noise obscenely loud in the silent room.

“Sh–Sherlock!” John cries out, his head thrown back in ecstasy as he moans out the detective's name, his hand jerking himself faster, faster, burning with the desire to tip over the edge of reality with Sherlock. The detective thrusts harder inside of John, his mouth open as he inhales sharp breathes, his chest heaving as he groans himself, feeling the pressure building to a sharp crescendo in his abdomen.

John cums with a loud shout, his moan vibrating around the walls of the room – and honestly, it's a miracle that no one burst into the room to see if anyone was harmed.

So John is a bit of a screamer. That'll be lots of fun later down the road.

The doctor cums in short and powerful bursts over his stomach, and the sight of enraptured bliss on John's face, the call of Sherlock's own name in the blonde's voice is more than enough to cause the world to tip in Sherlock's favour. The detective thrusts himself hard into John, and holds himself still as he releases, his eyes closing as he cum with a throaty moan burning in the back of his throat, tendrils of the sound leaking out of his lips as he throws his head back in pleasure.

As the world seems to right itself, Sherlock pulls himself out of the doctor, hearing a bit of a whimper from the blonde at the loss of contact. Sherlock chuckles and peels the condom off of himself, quickly finding a tissue to wrap the thing in before he tosses it in the trashcan. He walks back over to John, and lets himself lie down beside him (after he cleaned the blonde's stomach up with another tissue; thankfully, none of John's cum got on Sherlock's jacket, although it is a very safe bet that his jacket will need a wash from the sweat and smell of sex that will surely cling to it).

“That was...brilliant.” John mumbles, his eyes still a bit out of focus when he opens them, turning his head to glance over at Sherlock. The detective smiles at him, happily wrapped up in his post-coital bliss. The only other thing he needs right now is a cigarette.

“You know you do that out loud, right?” Sherlock asks, a teasing smile on his face, his eyes focused on John's face, letting himself gaze deeply into those blue eyes, categorizing every reflection of the light that they yield and committing that thoroughly fucked look on John's face to memory.

“Oh, umm...sorry?” John mumbles, looking apologetically up at the detective. Sherlock simply shakes his head, the same smile lingering on his lips. “No, no.... it's, it's fine.”

He rather likes John calling him brilliant.

“Well,” Sherlock starts abruptly, pushing himself into a sitting position and yanking up his pants and his trousers, covering his fully sated cock (although there is every chance he's going to want to fuck John again very, very soon – that had been rather brilliant actually; John is one of the best sexual partners that Sherlock has had in months). “I do believe that we ought to clean up before Molly gets back from her lunch break.”

“Ah, shit!” John cries out, his fingers hastily fumbling for his pants and his trousers, pulling them up his legs to cover himself, before the blonde joins Sherlock in rising to his feet.

The detective chuckles as he tucks his shirt back into his trousers, watching as John retrieves his jumper from some spot on the floor, pulling the large article of clothing over his body. Sherlock's fingers snatch up his coat, and he brings it to his mouth to sniff for a moment – he was right. Smells like sweat, sex, and John. Altogether, a rather fetching combination; but probably something he'll still have to wash.

Sherlock decides to slip the coat back on anyway, fully aware of the way that it smells and how John is looking at him for wearing it. He smirks and pulls the blonde close, their lips connecting in a full kiss that warms Sherlock down to the bone.

The door to the morgue clicks open and Sherlock gently releases John, who glances at the newcomer and instantly glances away, blushing furiously at being caught snogging in a morgue. Sherlock can’t help but smirk. Imagine if Molly had wandered in three minutes earlier.

Either way the girl eyes Sherlock suspiciously, her eyes darting to sex hair that she’s all too familiar with. She sighs and wanders over to the cabinet, picking out a bottle of Fabreeze and starting to squirt it over the room, covering up the stench of sex in the room. “I hope you two bothered to use protection.” She mutters, shaking her head at the idea as she turns back to the microscope she had been examining when they had first wandered into her domain.

“Oh, Molly, you know I always come prepared.” Sherlock winks at her, and she chuckles a smile on her face. She waves her hand at him, fond eyes following his every movement. “Oh go on, get out of here before I throw you out for having sex over the body of a dead man.”

“It wasn’t over him Molly.” Sherlock smirks, making his way for the door. He spares her one last glance as John follows him the doctor’s face the blushing colour of an apple as he mumbles an apology to the mortician, muttering something about seeing her for lunch the next day.

“And you know, I do think I remember you being quite fond of that floor yourself.” Sherlock winks at the redhead, who blushes as John does, before leaving the room. He chuckles to himself, fingers slipping into his pocket for a cigarette as he starts to leave the building. Can’t actually light the thing until he’s off of hospital grounds (what with rules and regulations, and smoking being bad for your health and all that; honestly, Sherlock ought to have quit long ago – he had quit three years ago… but grief does funny things to the human psyche. He really ought to do an experiment on that sometime).

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and Sherlock hears John’s footsteps trailing him. He slips the device out of his pocket; almost hoping it’s Lestrade with a case. That would be fun. Sex, a smoke, and a murder. Perfect afternoon. Plus, it would give his mind the space it needed to mull over the details of this spider web of crimes he’s dealing with.

A familiar name flashes over the screen, and the detective halts in his tracks, causing John to bump into his back. “Ooof! Sherlock! Why’d you stop in the middle of the hallway?”

His eyes give the message a once over before he slips the device back into his pocket. “My arch enemy. He’s coming here.” Instantly Sherlock’s pace picks up, hastily making for the nearest exit with as much grace and dignity as he can muster.

“Arch enemy?” John cries out as he follows the detective, his voice revealing his incredulities. “Sherlock, don’t you think that’s a bit dramatic? No one has arch enemies.”

The detective scowls and draws a cigarette out from its packaging, pulling it out into the fresh air with his lighter just as he pushes open a door to the outside word. He lights up the roll the moment fresh air knocks against his face, the afternoon sun beating down on his face. The lack of rain is a change, but the temperature is a bit uncomfortable after spending so much time in heat with John in a morgue.

He slips his lighter back into his pocket, raising the cigarette to his lips and taking in a long drag. Sherlock’s eyes slip shut for a moment as he takes in the chemical reaction, a smile sliding into place on his lips. Really, nothing like a post-coital cigarette.

John walks up behind him, taking extra steps to keep up with Sherlock’s long strides as the detective starts walking around the building to the street. “Sherlock? An archenemy? Really?”

“You doubt my words?” Sherlock asks, his eyes shifting over to the blonde. “Changing your tune Doctor Watson?” His lips twist into a smirk – for which he receives a smack to the side. He chuckles softly, blowing out a cloud of smoke.

“Oh, fuck.” Sherlock groans when they reach the front side of St. Bart’s for the road, and there’s already a sleek black car parked there, a young woman typing out furiously on her Blackberry.

He notes John’s hesitation beside him, but Sherlock strides right up to the girl – the woman who has been Mycroft’s assistant for the past five years. She barely spares him a glance, her long brown hair falling around her face with her eyes attached to the glowing screen of her phone. As always, she’s dressed nothing but formally.

“Your presence has been requested.” She informs Sherlock, straight down to business, no fooling around involved whatsoever. The detective throws her a smile that more closely resembles a resenting grimace. “Hello to you Anthea. He couldn’t even bother to pick me up himself? That diet must not be working very well for him.”

“Please step inside the vehicle.” Anthea responds, impervious to his jokes and snide comments. He huffs, drawing in another breath of his fag, gesturing for John to follow him. The detective climbs into the car, sitting down on leather seats and leaning back against them.

John stands in front of the open door, casting a dubious glance inside. “You’re willingly going along to see your ‘arch enemy’?” The doctor’s fingers form quotation marks when he utters the words ‘arch enemy’ and Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes. He settles for turning a sharp gaze on John. “It’s either come in the car right now, or be hassled at home later. Honestly, I’d rather face him after I’m still high off of endorphins.”

“You might want to refrain from saying things like that Mr. Holmes.” Anthea mutters, shaking her head slightly, fingers still typing away.

Sherlock mutters darkly under his breath, rolling his eyes. “Mycroft knows I haven’t done drugs since I was twenty. Besides, he can always test me if he’s concerned about the things that I say.”

John doesn’t seem very sure about the banter between Sherlock and Anthea, but after another jerk of the head from the detective, the doctor climbs inside of the vehicle. Anthea climbs inside as well, closing the door behind her and sitting across from Sherlock and John, her fingers never once losing their stride in their typing.

“So, how is my dear brother?” Sherlock asks, crossing his ankles over each other and leaning back into the leather seat as the vehicle start forward.

John's head turns sharply towards Sherlock, his eyes widened slightly. “Your brother is your arch enemy?” His voice rings with his disbelief, and the detective chuckles slightly. “Because you get along with your sister well, correct?”

The doctor huffs, rolling his eyes before turning to look out the window, muttering something about dramatics underneath his breath.

Not to Sherlock's surprise, Anthea doesn't answer his question – and he hadn’t expected her to. He's always known her to be glued to that phone of hers, completely dedicated to Mycroft and her job. Queen and country.

They drive around for a while, eventually pulling up at Buckingham Palace. John's mouth is wide open as he looks out the window, and Sherlock chuckles, amused by his reaction. “John, are you attempting to create a habitat for flies?”

The blonde instantly shuts his mouth, shooting Sherlock a glare as the car pulls up to a halt. Anthea pushes the door open, striding outside and holding the door open for the two of them.

John throws Sherlock a disbelieving glance before ducking out of the vehicle, the detective following him out into the sunlight.

“What exactly does your brother do?” John asks Sherlock, gazing up at the gorgeously famous London building as Anthea starts leading them inside.

The detective snorts. “My brother practically embodies the British government.”

“Don't be dramatic.” Anthea mutters, somehow successfully managing to type out on her phone and walk without running into anything. “Mycroft Holmes simply occupies a minor position in the British government.”

“Mycroft?” John snorts, shaking his head as they walk inside the building. “Honestly, your parents weren't thinking when they named you two. I mean,” He glances at Sherlock, lips curving in a guilty smile. “Your names are brilliant and unique – but you two must have had the roughest time at school.”

Sherlock chuckles, his eyes darting around the room. Anthea leads them through a doorway, holding the door open for them. “Rough wouldn't quite be as strong a word as I would use.”

“Please, sit here until he's ready for you.” Anthea points them to a couch and then walks off, heels clicking against the tile floor as she walks away, head held high with perfect business posture.

John lets out a deep breath and glances around the room in disbelief. “You know... I am strongly fighting an impulse to steal an ashtray.”

The detective laughs, lips splitting into a wide grin – because that's honestly the best response to his brother's annoyances that he's ever heard. John smiles back at him, and moves to sit down on the couch, his body relaxing into the cushions.

Sherlock stays standing, fingers sliding into the pockets of his coat – straighten the scarf around his neck (which had miraculously stayed wrapped around his neck when he had fucked John). Any minor form of rebellion against his brother was worth it. He brings his cigarette up to his lips, drawing in a breath and smirking.

He breathes out a cloud of smoke as he hears footsteps echoing on the floor. A man accompanies them, and Sherlock scowls at the appearance of his brother. “How's the diet going?” He sneers, eyes glancing down Mycroft's person to make him feel self-conscious.

“Fine.” Mycroft mutters stiffly, standing up in front of Sherlock with his back straight – as if he really did have a stick stuck up his arse. His older brother's hair is receding, but his eyes are still sharp blue. “We're not here to talk about my diet though.”

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow, tilting his head at his brother. “You're going to discipline me on the kidnapping?” He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Mycroft, that was nearly two weeks ago. You're losing your touch.”

His brother doesn't smile. His eyes simply narrow, and the man lowers himself down into a chair, his legs crossing over. “Please. As if everything wrong that you do is of the utmost importance to me.” The detective snorts, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms, annoyed with the interaction.

“Um, sorry, Mr. Holmes, I don't mean to interrupt.” John interjects into the conversation, his eyes flickering about between the two hostile figures of the brothers. “But I chewed him out about it when it happened. You really don't need to do it again. The repetition is a bit pointless.” Sherlock beams happily at the doctor.

“Ah, John Watson, I presume.” Mycroft folds his hands together in his lap. “It's perfectly acceptable to address me as Mycroft, seeing as though you're attempting to keep my brother in line.” John gives the man a half smile – more like a grimace than anything. “I hope you're finding him just as satisfactory as the others.”

“Don't you know it's rude to talk about people like they're a piece of meat?” Sherlock spits out, shuffling his feet, every limb of his body completely agitated.

“Others?”

Of course John would pick up on that. Sherlock lets out a huff. “My brother is callously referring to my sexual life John.” His eyes narrow at Mycroft, resenting the intrusion. “You know I'm not exactly... pure.”

Mycroft's eyes meet Sherlock's, devoid of amusement. “I had a nice little chat with Ian the other day.” Sherlock stiffens slightly, his eyes darting away, finding great interest in a painting hung on the far wall. Unfortunately, just because he's ignoring his brother, it doesn't shut him up.

“He thinks John is rather good for you.”

There's a pause.

“And he told me what was in the envelope.”

Sherlock's head swirls around, eyes like daggers to Mycroft's face. “And? What, are you going to lecture me about emotions? Tell me that I need to let go and move on with my life? That I ought to stop being 'self-destructive'?" He laughs, shaking his head. "Oh, Mycroft that is _rich_ coming from you.”

His brother's face darkens, and he coughs, his fingers absently rubbing over the bare finger of his left hand. Sherlock's lips tweak into the slightest smirk, a dark feeling rising in his chest, proud to have found a weakness in Mycroft's shield. “How is Lestrade?” He asks, voice dripping with vile. ”Talked to him recently?”

“What?”

Sherlock ignores John’s comment, and Mycroft's eyes light up angrily. “Greg is none of your business.” He mutters through gritted teeth, forcing his voice to remain calm. Mycroft won't yell. Sherlock hasn't ever heard him yell. And boy is he dying to hear it.

“Of course he's my business. I work with him!” Sherlock spits out, his hands on his hips, fingers pressing hard against his own skin. “I bet you he doesn't care. Bet you he never thinks of you late at night.”

“Are we talking about Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

Sherlock's eyes flash, noting his brother's fingers curling around the arms of his chair. “I bet you he's glad that you're gone.”

Mycroft jumps to his feet, his eyes blazing, and his mouth wide open to yell – and then there's the soft click of heels on the floor.

“Sorry boys, don't mind me.”

Sherlock freezes, his eyes darting up, meeting emerald green eyes and soft black curls. Ruby red lips curl up into a smile, and the woman tilts her head, smiling at him. “Sherlock. It's been a while hasn't it?”

_Fingernails clawed down his back. His body twisted in pleasured agony. His skin burned, his life force being drawn out from underneath his skin at the scratches._

_Crack of a whip and his back arched, a moan leaving his lips. The riding crop smacked his arse again, and his chest heaved as he panted for breath, his behind stinging from the snap of leather against his skin._

_“Have you been wicked?”_

“Irene Adler.” Sherlock murmurs her name softly, the fight and anger draining from his body as he look at her, letting out a defeated sigh. The woman smiles, her fingers resting on her hips. She's dressed in a lovely green dress that falls down in flows over her body, the material so sheen her body is visibly through the cloth. It flows down her body, barely covering her breasts, looped around a bit at her waist to cover up her pelvis. But she's not wearing anything underneath that dress, that's for certain.

“Oh, you remember me.” She smirks, a soft pink tongue licking her lower lip. “Honestly, I'm touched Sherlock.”

He scoffs and turns his gaze away. “Not really. More like a...” He waves his hand. “Flash in the memory.” His eyes turn sharp on hers. “You mustn't have made much of an impression.”

Irene chuckles, a smirk on her lips. “I made enough of an impression to see your eyes dilate when I walked into the room.”

“I'm sorry, could someone please explain to me what's going on?”

Sherlock glances over at John, who honestly looks so very lost, swept up in the world of people who share long and complicated pasts. His eyes flicker between the three people, but mostly focusing on Sherlock, looking up at the detective with searching eyes, silently demanding an answer.

“Oh it's easy darling.” Irene answers, smiling patiently as the blonde diverts his eyes toward her. “Sherlock hired me two years ago, and he's not quite too fond of the memory. I,” She pauses and gestures to herself before turning to face Mycroft. “Came to ask where the Royals keep blindfolds. Don't lie to me, I know you have them.”

Mycroft lets out a sigh, rolling his eyes. “Ms. Adler, you know exactly where they are, you've been here often enough.” Her lips tilt into a smile. “Alright, maybe I came here for a bit of amusement.” Irene's eyes shift back over to Sherlock, hungry. “I heard that satin voice and couldn't help myself.”

Sherlock grits his teeth together, turning to face Mycroft. “Alright, I won't kidnap people anymore. Is that what you want? Happy? Can I leave now?”

“What, you don't want to explain things to your little friend here?” Irene walks over to John, hips swaying underneath her dress, and she slides onto the couch to sit beside him, her thigh pressed up against his. Sherlock feels a swell of possessiveness rise up in his chest – because _damn it_ John is not for Irene to touch – and he forces it back down again. The woman smiles softly at John, the look coy and innocent. “You see, Sherlock here was in a rather bad spot two years ago. Needed someone to...” Her eyes lift to Sherlock, licking her lower lip. “Discipline him.”

“Yes, I was spiraling out of control with drugs and wanted sex, so I hired a whore.” Sherlock spits the word out angrily at her, his eyes blazing, his arms crossed over his chest. She smirks, looking up at him, brushing off the word without much more than a blink. “And I was so good you keep trying to find strangers that can live up to me, isn't that right?”

“Fuck you.” Sherlock responds, done with this whole arrangement. All the endorphins in the world were not enough to keep him calm and patient through this meeting. “I'm leaving.”

He turns around and starts to storm away, anger bubbling under the surface of his skin. Damn Irene for showing up, damn Mycroft for putting his nose in his business, and _damn_ John for making him feel all these things and confusing him more than he wants to be.

“You sure about that?” He hears Mycroft call out after him, not bothering to move. “Don't you want to hear about Victor?”

Sherlock stops in his tracks. He doesn't move. Can't move. Victor Trevor.

_“Come on Sherlock! Hurry up!”_

_“You know, it takes a bit of strength to walk fast when carrying your heavy arse.”_

_Beside him, Dominick laughed, chuckling at the way Victor clung to Sherlock's back – the detective giving the lithe man a piggyback ride in the dead of night. Victor smiled, leaning his head down to rest his cheek against Sherlock's, their breath frosting in the winter air. “And you know it's a fine piece of arse indeed.”_

_Lips kissed his cheek and Sherlock rolled his eyes, heaving the man higher up on his back. “You know, it's a good thing you're not a big fat guy, or this would be really difficult.”_

_"You volunteered." Victor insisted, his arms warm wrapped around Sherlock's neck, keeping himself hoisted up on the detective's back. “You could have said no. This is entirely your fault.”_

_“Yeah Sherlock, I would have been fine carrying him.” Dominick piped up from beside the two of them, a brilliant smile flashing across his lips, his breath fogging in front of his face as he rubbed two gloved hands together._

_Both Sherlock and Victor burst out laughing, the joyful sound filling the hallowed street. Dominick pouted, feeling a bit put off by the conjoined attack. “Come on guys, I could carry Victor!”_

_“Victor is bigger than you.” Sherlock insisted, giving the redhead a soft smile. “And his shoulders are broader. And he's heavier. Dominick, I love you, but you would be crushed like an ant if you tried to carry Victor.”_

_“Thanks love, that makes me feel swell about my body image.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at the soft voice in his ear, and his fingers pinched Victor's ankle, causing the man to yelp._

_“What was that for?” He cried out, bristling with annoyance, even as the other two men laughed in response. Victor got his revenge by biting the curl of Sherlock's ear, who simply shook his head to push the other's man's lips off. “It was for you being a prick. Now shut up and accept it.”_

_Victor sighed, and rested his chin on the top of Sherlock's head, his front pressing up against Sherlock's back as he was carried. “Are we almost there?” He asked, his voice leaking out in a whine._

_“Just about.” Dominick answered, a bit of a spring in his step as he walked, and he rubbed his hands together, his eyes lighting up in excitement._

_“Thank god.” Victor cried out, letting out a huff of annoyed breath. “Honestly, I'm picking what we do for New Years Eve next year boys, understood?”_

_Sherlock snorted in annoyance. “This coming from the man being carried.”_

_“What can I say, Sherlock? I'm high maintenance." Both Sherlock and Dominick rolled their eyes at that statement, sharing a look brimming with amusement._

_“Victor, I think even your cat knows you're high maintenance." Dominick offered the man a pat on the back as a condolence, and from the corner of his eye Sherlock could see the blonde giving the redhead a pout. “Don't tell me you're insulting Mr. Snuffles. He won't like that very much.”_

_“Have I mentioned how ridiculous it is that you named your cat Mr. Snuffles?” Sherlock asked, letting out a deep breath as he hoists Victor up on his back again, fingers fixing a new grip on the blonde's legs._

_“Seventeen times, yes you have mentioned it.”_

_“Oi – now's not the time to be arguing.” Dominick glanced at the watch on his wrist, quickly covering it up again with his sleeve. “There's less than ten minutes until midnight. If we don't move a little faster, we're going to miss it!”_

_Sherlock leaned back and dropped Dominick off his back, whose legs dropped down to the ground with an oomph before he released the detective's neck. “You heard the man. You're walking. We'll make faster time that way.”_

_Victor sighed and pushed blonde hair out of his eyes. “Oh, it was such a lovely ride too.”_

_Sherlock winked at him. “You'll be saying that all over again when we get back to the flat.”_

_Dominick laughed, slipping his gloved hand into Sherlock's and squeezing it tightly. “Oh? I didn't realize you had already planned out how our night was going. Shall I bring out the handcuffs again?”_

_“Shut up.” Sherlock murmured, pulling the redhead close and bending his head down to seal their lips into a soft kiss, chilled lips warming each other up with the touch. “That was one time, and you know you liked it as much as I did.”_

_“I thought you said we were trying to move faster?” Victor asked, scoffing and taking Sherlock's other hand, tugging the other two men down the road. “Come on! I'm sure the building is around here somewhere.”_

_Dominick laughed, and Sherlock grinned, taking in a deep breath of the chill winter air. There was still no snow, but that was a usual London winter for you. But they were in one of the quiet parts of the city, clambering for one of the tallest buildings so they could lie on the roof and watch fireworks to welcome in the New Year. It had been a crazy past few months with Sherlock and Victor's finals at the University, and the late nights Dominick had been working down at the yard, but here, tonight, all three of them were together, smiling and laughing – and it was brilliant._

_Right now, the town was theirs for the taking. They had everything they needed, and didn’t need to ask for anything else. They could spend the rest of the night kissing to bide their time; using the whole night to feel alive. Together, the three planned to attach wings to all the sights, and make sure that the buildings flew._

_Dominick picked out the building first, his fingers slipping out of Sherlock's to race to the fire escape, calling out to his companions that the last one to the top was being tonight's bottom. Of course, Sherlock and Victor raced after him, all clambering to reach the top of the building first, but no one really caring about if they would end up being the bottom later that night or not._

_The trio finally reached the top of the building, and looked up into the night sky, twinkling with stars. Sherlock lied down on the roof first, spreading his arms out behind his head. Dominick and Victor quickly joined him, both men curling into both of his sides, their hands all clasped together. Their breath frosted in the air as they laid there in silence, waiting for the fireworks they knew were going to show._

_In the distance, they heard Big Ben strike midnight, Dominick's watch echoing the noise with a beeping of it's own. From far off, there's a sizzle, and then the sky exploded in colour, bursts of red, blue and white decorating the night sky and bringing neon to its knees. Sherlock's heart pounded with every boom of the fireworks, and he squeezed the hands curled around his own._

_“Happy New Year.” He said softly, and received two squeezes in return. Victor's fingers traced gently down Sherlock's side, and Dominick curled up close to the detective in order to press a soft kiss to Sherlock's cheek._

_Above their heads, the air was painted with every colour of the rainbow, and in the distance there were celebratory cries that welcomed in the New Year. But right there on that rooftop, it was just Sherlock, Dominick, and Victor. It was their time to shine beyond the pavement, to run the feeding grounds for those who still believed. Because they were going to steal the show – they’d worked too hard to ever leave this life without a fight._

_It was just the three of them, caught up in this city’s pages. And it was the best moment of the past twelve months._

Sherlock swallows hard and turns around slowly on his heels, turning to face Mycroft, Irene and John with his chin held up high. “What about Victor?” He asks quietly, the silence in the room so quiet that a dropped pin would sound like a gunshot.

“He's in a bit of a bind. Called me up. Asked if I could get London's finest detective on the job.” Mycroft says simply, folding his hands over his knees as he stares up at Sherlock. “I would have thought you'd be delighted to hear from your old University buddy?”

Sherlock grits his teeth together and takes in a few deep breaths. He's not going to rise to that bait. “I assume you have a number I can contact.”

“Does that mean you'll take the case?” Mycroft asks, tilting his head ever so slightly, a smile forming on his lips.

“We'll see.” Sherlock answers, the words tight between his lips. Irene chuckles and smiles at Sherlock, rising to her feet. “How sentimental of you Sherlock.”

The woman rests her hands on her hips, sparing the detective a thoughtful glance. “Well, I must depart. Customers to please and all that jazz.” She winks. “But you know, call me up if you're ever in for another lonely night. We can have dinner.” And then Irene Adler sweeps her way out of the room, every eye following her exit, as dramatic and beautiful as a peacock in flight.

John turns his head to face Sherlock. “Who's Victor?”

Sherlock licks his lower lip and strides over to Mycroft, holding his hand out. “May I have the number, please?”

His brother chuckles, a smile lingering on his lips. “Oh, don't be a grouch about this Sherlock. It'll do you good to reconnect with your past a bit.” His fingers reach into the inner pocket of his suit, and he draws out a strip of paper, handing it over to Sherlock.

The detective takes the paper, unfolding it to see Victor's messy scrawl written over the lined paper, giving his number, name, and a funny little smiley face at the bottom. Sherlock's lips tweak up ever so slightly.

He nods his head at Mycroft, and turns to walk away, gesturing for John to follow him. But he pauses in his tracks. He turns around, and looks over at Mycroft, guilt forming the next words that leave his mouth. “You should call him. He misses you.”

Mycroft glances away, hiding the hurt that crosses his eyes. Sherlock grimaces, turns around, and walks away, the sound of John's footsteps following behind him.

“Do your brother and Detective Inspector Lestrade have a thing?” John asks, confusion on his features as he peers over at the detective, the two of them striding down the steps of the Buckingham Palace.

“They were engaged.” Sherlock answers simply, his eyes focused on the path in front of him. “It got... complicated.”

There's a pause. “What happened between you and your brother? You don't seem to like each other very much.” Sherlock snorts, shaking his head. “Bit of an understatement. Old history between us, that's all. And nothing I wish to go into at the moment.”

Beside him, John nods his head, and they walk in silence for a few more minutes, feet tracing pavement and finding their way back to regular sidewalks. John keeps glancing at him, and Sherlock is about to ask him to stop being so distracting, when the dreaded words fall from the blonde's lips.

“Who's Victor?”

Sherlock takes in a deep breath. Victor Trevor. How does he describe Victor? Victor is... a creative genius. A master communicator. A man of many words. A marvelous lover. Funny. Special. A pain in the arse to carry. Annoying. A prick.

“Victor Trevor is… he was… my friend.”


	9. One of Those Nights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of Those Nights with Lyrics: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X4Mi7btMyiM
> 
> The crime in this chapter is from the movie 'Dial M for Murder' - I didn't make it up, just tweaked a few of the details. You don't need to have seen the movie in order to enjoy this mystery.

It turns out that Sherlock didn't have to call the number.

A few hours after the surprise drive all the way to _Buckingham Palace_ of all places, Sherlock got a phone call. He and John had returned to the flat after leaving, and the detective hadn't spoken a word. John kept glancing at him in worry, his lips pressed together in a tight line. He made the bloke tea, and set it on the table next to him – but Sherlock's eyes just wouldn't leave that slip of paper, a messy scrawl written out across faded blue lines.

Sherlock had said that this character... Victor Trevor... said that he was a friend. Did that mean something bad happened between the two of them? John wouldn't doubt it. To him, it just seemed like the more he found out about Sherlock's past, the more characters he found with broken relationships in connection to the detective.

There was Dominick – who was either Sherlock's boyfriend or some higher marital status, gathering from everything John had learned. He was dead.

There was Mycroft – Sherlock's brother. They had some sort of complicated past and hated each other.

There was that lady on Detective Inspector Lestrade's force, Sally Donovan. Apparently they had slept with each other, and she resented him because he had made a fool of her, or something along those lines.

There was Detective Inspector Lestrade – although John imagines his relationship with Sherlock is fine, because they were on speaking terms that night back at Mary's house.

And now there's this mysterious Victor who used to be Sherlock's friend.

John sips at his tea, flipping through the pages of a book he'd started earlier that week. He had been planning on getting Sherlock to call that number – but it just didn't seem appropriate to break the silence when Sherlock's eyes looked so sad. There wasn't much he could do on the Moriarty case – Sherlock was far cleverer than he was, and John would probably just end up missing all the important information. He could call Jim and ask him about the tattoos – but the idea of calling the bloke while he was at work to ask about a case that Sherlock had kidnapped him for just made him feel a little sick.

He licks a drop of tea off of his bottom lip, the clock on the while chiming four in the afternoon, when Sherlock's phone rings. The device had been put on silence, but it buzzes over the kitchen counter, violently shaking against the tiles of the countertop.

To John's surprise, Sherlock's hand snaps up and grabs the device, flicking it on and holding it up to his ear. “Lestrade.”

John leans back, watching the neutral expression on the detective's face. Across the room, the blonde can't ear what's being said over the line, but if the call is from the Detective Inspector, Sherlock will probably tell him about it. Probably relates to a case. It's the only time Greg ever calls.

“Yes I got the number.” Sherlock mutters, his fingers stretching out to take the cup of tea John had made him three hours ago. It was bound to be stone cold by now, but John never would have been able to tell by Sherlock's face when he drinks the liquid. It was almost as if Sherlock had been in a trance, and the phone call had revived him.

“Because I wasn't sure if I wanted to call it.” Sherlock snaps over the line, his lips forming a frown. John picks up his up his bookmark from the table beside him, and slides it between the pages of his book, placing the novel down on the table.

“You haven't let Anderson touch the body, have you?” Sherlock growls over the line, pushing himself up from the kitchen stool and striding over to the door to pick his raincoat off of the hanger. John glances out the window at the rain pouring down the glass pane. It had started raining heavily outside about an hour ago, and didn’t look like it was letting up anytime soon. “I'll be there in twenty minutes. Don't touch anything else. And make sure the wife and husband don't leave until I get there.”

Sherlock clicks the phone off, sliding the device into his pocket. John strides over to him, picking up an umbrella off of the hanger instead of a raincoat – too comfortable in his jumper to change into something else. “So, where are we going?” He asks, and Sherlock turns to face him, a bit of a surprised expression on his face.

“Oh don't think you were going to be leaving me behind.” John scolds, shaking his head. “I'm coming with you. Provide some of my expert medical opinion.” He teases and smiles over at the detective. Sherlock lets out a breathy laugh, his lips hinting at a smile. “Across London. We're going to the flat of a Mr. Wilson Peterson.”

His eyes light up as he slips his arms into his raincoat. “Apparently his wife murdered a blackmailer last night.”

John chuckles at Sherlock's delight in the crime, and the two of them trek down the stairs, the detective calling a cab seemingly out of nowhere before they climb in and take off.

The rain gently trickles down the windows of the car, and John can't help but stare at Sherlock. What goes on in his mind? Would he ever let John see it? God, he just wants time to give the detective a waste of time.

Sherlock's fingers stretch into his raincoat and he plucks a bottle out of one of the pockets. John recognizes the bottle as a container for anti-depressants, and watches sadly as the detective swallows down two of the pills before returning the bottle to his pocket.

John licks his lower lip and glances away, looking out of the window. It hurts him inside, that Sherlock is so sad and so alone, and John is right there for the detective to talk to, but he won't. His eyes turn back on the detective, shaping out the man’s jawline with his eyes, just observing and watching Sherlock. Maybe if John posed the question, it would be easier for the detective to answer.... but of course, maybe not.

“John, stop that, it's awfully distracting.” Sherlock mutters quietly, his low voice drawing out every word like a dreaded scorn. The blonde huffs and shakes himself. “Stop what? I'm not doing anything.”

“You're staring. It's distracting.”

John raises an eyebrow. “You're distracted by me looking at you?” That shouldn't make his heart flutter. It really shouldn't.

Sharp blue eyes turn on him, shifting green in the darkened light of the cab, but poised on John, capturing his gaze like a fish caught in a net. Helpless. “Yes, you're distracting. I'm trying to think about this crime, and what it will entail, but instead, your eyes are on me, and it's very distracting.”

John licks his lower lip and swallows, tilting his head slightly. “Why don't we talk then? Chat on the way to the crime scene? Seeing as though you're not going to get any thinking done anyway.”

The detective sighs, and settles himself down into his seat – and John can see his fingers itching towards his pocket, where his cigarettes are stashed. He mutters something about a waste of time, and turns his eyes back on John. “What exactly do you wish to speak about?”

What does he want to talk about? John's mind goes completely blank – and that's ever so frustrating, because he has so many questions for the dark haired man, and the number of questions is just so overwhelming that he can't even think of where to start.

“Who was Dominick to you? Like... was he your best friend? Boyfriend? Fiancé?”

Sherlock's eyes dart away, and John's eyes pick up movement in Sherlock's lap. He watches as long fingers gently trace over the fourth finger of his left hand, and John's heart falls before the answer even leaves the detective's lips.

“Husband.” Sherlock says quietly, his eyes stuck out the window – as if he could only talk about the issue when he wasn't looking at John. “We met when I was seventeen and he was nineteen at a crime scene.” There's the barest of a smile on Sherlock's lips. “We hit it off right away, but we stayed as friends until I turned nineteen. We were six months into our relationship when I met you for the first time.”

So Sherlock had been nineteen that night in the bar. Which would make Sherlock... twenty-five right now. Four years younger than John. Bit of an age gap, but his aunt was fifteen years younger than his uncle, so it's really not that bad.

“We dated for two and a half years before I proposed to him.” Sherlock's words are soft, and the detective continues to look straight out of the window. “We were married for almost a year before he died.” The man swallows, and nothing else leaves his lips. The air is heavy with regret, and John glances between Sherlock and his own window, wondering what he ought to do with that information.

The cab stops at a light, the engine humming as it waits for the ability to move foreword. John jumps at the chance, unbuckling his seatbelt and sliding close to Sherlock, their thighs touching. The detective turns his head, looking over at John, and the blonde can see tears swimming in his eyes. Though he knows the detective wouldn't admit it. He offers the man a soft smile, resting his hand on his thigh in silent comfort.

Sherlock offers a smile in return, and leans forward to press a soft kiss to John's forehead, causing his skin to tingle in response to the touch. He squeezes Sherlock's thigh as a thank-you, and decides to change the subject. “So, you said that Victor was a friend of yours...?”

The detective chuckles slightly, and John feels a rush of relief that the man is up to offering information right now. “Victor was my roommate in University.” The detective's lips tweak slightly, and John hopes that he's thinking fondly of the man. It's such a shame when the shadows of Sherlock's past darken his face. “We always had a bit of a thing for each other, but we never did anything about it because I was so caught up in trying to investigate crimes I wasn't supposed to be near, and he always had his nose stuck in a book. But it changed when Dominick came along.”

John tilts his head, waiting to hear more (thirsty with curiosity actually), but the detective falls silent, and John knows enough not to push him. When the man is ready, he'll tell him on his own. And John has the utmost faith in that.

The cab falls to silence again, and John doesn’t move his hand for the remainder of the ride. His thumb absently strokes the outside of Sherlock’s thigh as he glances out of the window, trying to see through the sheets of rain to discover where they were going.

It’s fifteen minutes later when the cab finally pulls to a halt, and Sherlock flees out into the pouring rain – once again leaving John to pay the cabbie. He sighs and pulls out his umbrella, opening it as he steps outside to cover himself from the onslaught of liquid. He glances around as the cab drives off, searching for Sherlock.

The police car lets him know where the detective is.

John walks over to the building, managing to slip by a few of the police officers that are milling about outside, hiding from the rain under umbrellas. He steps into the hallway of the building, making note of the carpeted staircase that leads up the rest of the building. He steps forward, looking up the stairs – there must be at least five stories in this building.

But John disregards the stairs once he realizes that the open door to the flat on the ground level is the one that he needs to be going in. He walks in through the doors, and instantly finds Sherlock bending over the body of a dead man – a pair of scissors sticking out of his back.

“Oh, you’re here too?”

John glances over at Lestrade, who had been speaking with a distraught looking man before he glances up to see the doctor. The blonde nods his head, offering the DI a soft smile. “Yeah, I’m helping Sherlock. Nice to see you again Detective Inspector.”

The man chuckles, and shakes his head. “Please, if you’ve managed to stick around Sherlock this long, you can call me by my first name. It’s Greg.” John smiles and nods his head. “Alright, thanks Greg.”

He walks over to the detective, and crouches down next to him. “So,” He starts, looking up at the man. “What do you think happened here?”

Sherlock doesn’t look at him. His fingers carefully peel down the hem of the dead man’s shirt, revealing his shoulder – and revealing a tattoo of an eagle. Sharp eyes lift up to John’s, who lets out a deep breath. “Do you ever get the feeling that we’ve stumbled across something much bigger than we originally thought?”

The detective’s lips tweak in the slightest smile and he shifts the shirt back, nodding his head. Then Sherlock’s hands pad all over the man’s body, fingers dipping into his pockets. John glances about quickly to see if anyone is watching. Is Sherlock really allowed to do that? Well, then again, it is Sherlock.

He turns back to the detective to see the man rising to his feet. Sherlock glances about, and John lets his eyes wander about the room. There’s a desk right beside where the body lies, and two French doors wide open behind them. On the left side of the room there’s a couch and two armchairs, and there’s a door to the bedroom at the far end of the room. He can’t see, but he imagines there’s an adjoining bathroom inside the bedroom, as there’s no other door in the room.

The flat is much smaller than Sherlock’s, but the wallpaper is flowery, and the shelves are cluttered, and there’s a very homey feel to the atmosphere. Well, there would be if it weren’t for the dead body on the floor.

“I really can’t believe this happened.” John turns around at the sound of the deep voice, obviously distraught. The man that Greg is talking to is wringing his hands, glancing worriedly between the DI and the dead body. “Why would anyone try to kill my wife? She's the sweetest lamb.”

Curious, John walks over to the man, who looks up at him with confused lines written over his face. “Who're you? You're not with the police.”

“No, I'm not.” John answers, giving the man a smile and stretching out his hand. “John Watson. Doctor. I'm working with the detective.”

From behind him, John hears Sherlock mutter the correction of ' _consulting_ detective' and the blonde chuckles.

“Oh.” The man stretches his hand forward, shaking John's with a tight grip. “Wilson Peterson. I live here with my wife, Kate.”

John nods his head, releasing the man's hand as Greg leaves the two of them when Sherlock beckons the DI over to the French doors.

“And where is your wife?” John asks politely, curious to see if he can get information about the situation out of the man. Well, anything actually – since John doesn't really know much about the case other than there's an idea of the wife murdering the man on the floor.

“In the bedroom.” Wilson answers evenly, his hands still ringing as he glances towards the closed door. “She was in an absolute fright last night, and the police swarming all over the place has tuckered her out. She's resting.”

John nods his hand, folding his hands into his pockets. Understandable, really. He looks up at the man, giving him a sympathetic smile. “I understand what you're going through. My girlfriend was murdered last month.”

Mr. Peterson's expression melts. “Oh, you do have my condolences. That's absolutely terrible.”

He offers the man a smile. "It's alright." His eyes dart about the room, landing on Sherlock, watching the way his hands move about as he talks, looking quite exasperated as he attempts to explain something to Greg. “I'm doing okay.”

Mr. Peterson chuckles, and John turns to see brown eyes drop to the blonde's neck. "Yes, I can see that."

John blushes furiously and shuffles his feet, coughing awkwardly. “Yes, well,” He smiles and licks his lower lip. “Um, you care to tell me what happened?”

“Ah, yes, of course.” Those brown eyes shift over to the dead body before turning back to John. “I went out to a party last night with a friend of Kate's – Victor Trevor. She introduced me to him a few days ago.” He scowls, and John raises an eyebrow at the look.

Wilson takes in a deep breath, swallowing. “We were out, well into the morning. When I came back, my wife was trembling on the floor, and that man was dead with a pair of scissors in his back.” He shakes his head. “She said he tried to kill her.”

The man runs his fingers through his hair. “I didn't touch the body, of course. I spent some time consoling my wife, and then I phoned the police.”

Mr. Peterson's eyes dart back to the body. “The police found a love letter on the dead man's body. Written by my wife.... for that _Victor Trevor_.” He spits the name out with venom, and John grimaces, recognizing that anger. That sound of jealousy is something that he’s more than familiar with, thanks to his sister.

He looks up at John, folding his arms over his chest. “They're saying that Kate killed that man for blackmailing her. I don't know if I can believe that. Kate's such a sweet little thing – she wouldn't harm a fly!”

John tilts his head at the man, ignoring the issue of Victor Trevor for now. “Does your wife have any enemies? Anyone who would like to see harm come to her?”

Mr. Peterson shakes his head. “No... I can't think of anyone. She's a terribly nice girl. Everyone likes her.”

“Mr. Peterson, could you get your wife for us please, we'd like to speak with her.”

John glances over at Greg's voice, the detective moving around the desk to stride over to the blonde. Wilson nods his head weakly at the DI and walks over to the bedroom, slipping inside to speak to his wife.

“He’s an ex-professional tennis player.” Sherlock’s voice is deep in his ear, and his body stiffens for a moment, not prepared for the sudden baritone voice breathing hot hair on his ear. “His wife, Kate Peterson, is a trophy wife. She has the money in their relationship. She was going to leave him a few years back because he was so busy traveling for tournaments, and he retired from tennis shortly after her announcement in order to be with her.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” John turns his head slightly; his eyes lifting up to Sherlock’s swirling blue ones. “Most people would say that was a loving gesture.”

Sherlock scoffs and rolls his eyes, standing close behind John. The blonde can feel the man standing behind him, their bodies practically touching, but barely. “In any normal situation, I might agree with you. But there's a man dead – any detail is important.”

John nods his head slightly. “What did you notice then?”

“Hold on.” Sherlock's breath leaves his ear and the detective stands up straight. John's eyes lift to watch as a meek girl comes out of the bedroom, brown hair curling over her shoulders and dark eyes stuck on the floor. She has a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, a loose fitting top, and jeans on. There’s no way she’s more than twenty-two or twenty-three.

“Kate Peterson?” Greg asks the woman softly, and she nods her head, her eyes flickering over to her husband, who nods his head slightly.

“I’m afraid I have to arrest you on charge of murder.”

“What?” She cries out, her eyes wide as she stares up at the Detective Inspector. Beside her, Wilson shares a similar look. “But I haven't done anything wrong!”

“Well, the evidence points elsewhere.” Greg offers her an arm. “We'd just like to take you down to the Yard for some fingerprint analysis and some more questioning.”

Kate swallows, her eyes flickering about the room, searching everyone's face. John offers her a small smile when her eyes reach him. The girl looks over to her husband, who nods his head and gently pats her back, their eyes passing silent communication.

“Okay.” She replies, her voice quiet and meek as her hands take Greg's arm, and he starts leading her out of the room.

Before anyone can turn their attention elsewhere, there's a shout from just outside the room. “Kate!”

Kate's whole face brightens. “Victor!”

A young man dashes into the room, panting for breath, the sheen of sweat upon his forehead. His hair is dark black, and curls around his ears – as if trying to reach out to the man and beg for a haircut. Modern glasses perch on his nose, and his large hands pull the girl into a hug, reciprocation give tenfold.

Fantasy green eyes reveal themselves when the two break apart, Victor's hands cupping her face. “Are you okay darling?”

“I'm fine.” She smiles at him – and John notices she looks much more relaxed when she's looking at him instead of her husband. “I just... Have to go down to the station with them.”

Victor's eyes dart up, and they land on John. Well, they land on the tall figure standing directly behind the blonde. John's not sure what Sherlock's face looks like, but Victor's absolutely melts, and his eyes swim – as if the ghosts of his past were swimming in his eyes.

John coughed awkwardly, breaking the tension between Victor and Sherlock. Green eyes avert themselves, turning back to Kate's face. “Don't worry, I'll help sort this whole mess out. You'll be fine.” He leans forward, kissing her forehead (John hears Mr. Peterson snort). “Trust me.”

“Alright, we have to go now.” Greg says softly, taking Kate's arm and gently leading her out of the room. Victor swallows, watching her go. The rest of the room breaks out of its trance and starts moving about. But behind him, Sherlock is as still as an ice statue.

John watches Victor swallow hard, and the blonde takes the initiative to turn his body enough where he can watch the interaction between the two men. Green eyes turn slowly, and rest on the face of the detective.

“Hey Sherlock.” The man whispers softly, fingers sliding into his pockets – looking torn between rushing forward and hugging Sherlock or standing in his place.

“Victor.” Sherlock murmurs in response, tilting his chin up and holding his head high – too proud to admit he's emotionally compromised. “You died your hair.”

He chuckles, fingers rising to his hair, curling a strand around his hair. “Blonde wasn't working for me.”

Sherlock nods his head every so slightly, but despite the cold front, the detective's swirling eyes shine golden from the light as his eyes flicker all over the man – drinking in his sight. John shuffles his feet, a painful stab of jealousy right to his gut at the look. He feels so inadequate standing between the two men.

The detective tilts his head slightly, eyes darting away. “I didn’t think you were in London anymore.” The other man glances down, looking terribly guilty. “I’m not. Well,” He shrugs his shoulders. “I just came back to London for a few weeks to visit with... with Kate.”

“You live in America now?” Sherlock asks, his voice quiet. Victor smiles, looking up at the detective. “You could tell from the slight change in my accent, couldn’t you?” The detective nods his head slightly and John lets out a huff of breath, starting to feel claustrophobic from the tension held in the air.

“Alright you two,” John utters, taking charge with his hands on his hips. “We’ve got a murder on our hands, and you two need to deal with this tension between you, or we’re never going to get anywhere past polite small talk.”

Sherlock lifts his head a bit higher, his jaw clenching, but Victor has the decency to flush with embarrassment. “Look, Sherlock,” Green eyes tilt up at Sherlock, and his mouth opens to speak – but the detective gets there first.

“Dominick’s dead.”

Victor’s face falls, pain flashing in his eyes. The two men are silent, and John watches as Victor’s Adam’s apple bobs, his lips pressed tightly together. “How long?”

“Two years.”

John watches as green eyes face the floor, taking a moment before rising to blue. “I’m so sorry. I should have been there. How...?”

“Shot.” Sherlock says tightly. “Bank robbery.” John notices his fingers curling into fists, digging into his palms. He wants to comfort the detective, but at the same time he doesn’t want to interrupt the conversation between the two men – which is just as important as comforting, because without the conversation, Sherlock and Victor will be walking circles around each other all day, and that won’t be helpful for anyone. So he’s stuck in a limbo state of wanting to move and not moving.

Victor nods his head, swallowing hard. “I’m really sorry Sherlock. I know he meant a lot to you.” Sherlock takes in a deep breath, his head nodding curtly, fingers of one hand brushing against his ring finger.

“Right so,” John takes in a deep breath, clapping his hands together. “So, we’ve got a murder. Man with a pair of scissors in his back, and a young girl accused of killing him to stop him from blackmailing her. What can we go on?”

Victor’s eyes flash. “All I know is Kate isn’t guilty. She can’t be guilty. I know her.”

John catches Sherlock’s jaw tightening at the words – and boy, is there something bubbling under the surface there. “Mr. Peterson said that,” He turns his head back to Victor, looking into worried green eyes. “Said that there was a letter on the dead man. A love letter from her to you.”

Victor’s face pales, draining of colour. He takes in a deep breath and nods his head. “Yes, we exchanged quite a few letters. A few weeks ago, she called me up and said her purse had been stolen. There was a letter she had written for me in there.” Green eyes flicker over to Sherlock’s face before moving back to John’s, clearly not wanting to stare into the face of his past. “The handbag showed up a couple days later, but the letter was nowhere to be found.”

His fingers slide through his hair. “She did get a blackmailing letter last week, asking for money. She told me about it, but I told her she shouldn’t pay it. She wasn’t going to pay for it.” He insists on the information, his hands firmly set against his hips.

Sherlock’s body shifts, and John turns his head to follow his eyes, lighting on Mr. Peterson, who walks back into the room from outside, still wringing his hands. “Mr. Peterson,” Sherlock remarks, drawing the brown eyes of the man, who looks up at the detective, his brows furrowed together. “Could you describe to me the scene of the room when you arrived home last night?”

“Yeah, of course.” Mr. Peterson answers, walking over to the three men and shooting Victor a vile glance. Victor takes it upon himself to walk around to the other end of the room, helping a few of the policemen package up the dead body for transportation. “Well, I got home, and the man was on the floor – ”

“Geoffrey Sweet.” Sherlock inserts, giving the name of the dead man. He tilts his head slightly at Mr. Peterson. “So, you don’t know this man?”

Mr. Peterson shakes his head, looking up at Sherlock with confusion etched into his face. “No, of course I don’t know the man.”

Sherlock nods his head, clasping his hands together behind his back. “Right, right, of course not.” He licks his lower lip, tilting his head at the wall. “I was simply curious, because I’m positive that Mr. Sweet is one of the men in that photograph.”

The detective gestures to the wall, both John and Mr. Peterson turning to look at the picture. On the wall, there’s a couple framed pictures, but the one Sherlock gestures to is of Mr. Peterson and four other men, probably in their early twenties. Maybe ten or fifteen years ago.

And one of the men, smiling with a young Mr. Peterson, was a younger version of Geoffrey Sweet.

“Oh.” Mr. Peterson says in surprise, his face twisting in surprise. “Suppose I did know him.” He laughs, shaking his head. “I haven’t been in contact with any of my University buddies in ages.” His lips twist into a thoughtful smile. “Geoffrey always was a bit on the wild side. It almost makes sense that he might have fallen on the wrong side of the law.”

Sherlock nods his head, and waves his hand. “Sorry, mere observation. Please, continue with your account of what happened last night.”

Mr. Peterson nods his head, licking his lower lip and glancing back at the detective. “Right...” He trails off, still ringing his hands. “Well, I came home after the party, opened the door with my key, and walked in to see Kate trembling in front of the body, scissors in his back.”

The detective tilts his head, and John wonders where exactly he’s going with this questioning. “And the doors over there?” He gestures to the open French doors, the reason that the sound of rain splattering against the ground is so loud in the room. “Were they open when you got home?”

The man nods his head, taking in a deep breath. “Yes, there were. And some of Kate’s jewelry was out of place. I had thought that he’d broken into our home while I was away to rob us, and it had gone wrong when he realized Kate was still home. But after finding that letter....”

Sherlock’s fingers slide into his coat, picking out a cigarette and his lighter. John watches, and he notices for the first time two initials on the bottom of the lighter – D. B. Dominick Bunker. Oh. Sherlock keeps Dominick’s old lighter with him. He swallows.

God, why is he doing this? Sharing a flat with Sherlock? Investigating crimes with him? Sleeping with him? There’s no way he can ever begin to match up to all those memories, all those feelings that Sherlock still retained for his late husband. He was only setting himself up to get hurt. But... the sad thing is that he doesn’t think he could stop even if he wanted to.

A flame jumps to light, and Sherlock’s fag blazes. He takes in a deep breath, eyes closing for a moment before he tilts his head back and blows out a stream of smoke through puckered lips. And John really shouldn’t be attracted to something that unhealthy. Maybe he ought to get Sherlock to try nicotine patches.

“Mr. Peterson,” He starts, eyes focusing back on the older man. “The French doors, they open outward yes? Locked from the inside?” The man nods his head. “Yeah. All the doors in this flat lock from the inside.”

“So, just to get this clear, one would have to be inside in order to open either door?”

Mr. Peterson nods his head. Sherlock takes a draw of his cigarette, his cheeks hallowing out, and the doctor just can't help but stare at pale skin. “In order to gain access to your house, someone would either have to use or key, or be let in, correct?”

The man nods his head again, licking his lower lip. “Kate must have let him in then. There are only two copies of the key to this flat."

Sherlock tilts his head. “You're sure there are only two copies?”

Mr. Peterson nods his head vigorously – and John is lost. “Yes, there's no way the key could have been copied. I always keep mine in my jacket pocket, and Kate always has hers in her purse.”

John glances over to the jacket he points at – and he's surprised to see that it looks exactly like the rain jacket Sherlock is currently wearing. He peers up at the detective, wondering what the cogs turning in his head are telling him.

“I hope you gentleman will excuse me,” Mr. Peterson remarks quietly, edging past the two men. “I just need to use to loo, and then I must be off to the bank.”

“Of course.” Sherlock tips his head politely at him, letting the brunette escape into the bathroom.

“Sherlock,” John starts once the bathroom door clicks shut, but he turns to see the detective rapidly stripping off his raincoat and swapping it with Mr. Peterson's. His eyes widen slightly as he slips on the coat that belongs to Mr. Peterson, fixing the hem as if it were his own coat.

“Sherlock,” John starts again, his mouth slightly open. “What're you –?”

Once again, his speech is impaired. But this time, it's because Sherlock's lips are folding over his own, hands pulling him close against the other's warm body. He makes a small noise of protest, but it doesn't last long when a tongue brushes against his lips, and he submits to the warm taste of smoke.

There's a cough from beside them, and Sherlock lets John go, and the doctor blinks his eyes open to see a rather red faced Victor standing in the doorway of the flat. “So, um, you two...?” He gestures a hand between them, and John turns his eyes to the detective – who has his cigarette back between his lips and his gaze averted.

John sighs heavily. “It's complicated.”

Victor nods his head. “You know,” He starts, lifting his eyes to John's. “Never did catch your name.”

“Oh,” John reaches out a hand, instantly met with Victor's, and the two of them firmly shake hands. “John Watson. I'm a Doctor at Bart's. I work surgery.”

“Impressive.” Victor smiles up at him, and then hands release. “Victor Trevor. I write mystery novels.”

There's a soft click, and John glances over to see Mr. Peterson exiting the bathroom. His eyes flicker over to Sherlock, who's standing comfortably on the jacket as if it were his own. “Well, thank you for your time.” He offers a smile as the man walks over to the French doors and closes them.

“I just hope this whole mess gets sorted out soon.” Mr. Peterson says, shaking his head as he reaches out and takes his raincoat (which, in reality, is Sherlock's), sliding his arms inside.

Sherlock nods his head and strides out of the door, halting in the hallway and stepping up against the wall in order to let everyone else file out of the room. John stands next to Sherlock, curiosity causing him to remain silent. He catches Victor looking over at Sherlock in surprise. Mr. Peterson closes the door behind them, the lock on the inside of the door clicking shut.

“I'll be in touch.” Sherlock smiles at Mr. Peterson, and then glances at John and Victor, blue eyes sweeping over their faces. “We received a call from three floors up. Let's go.” His voice is curt and commanding as he strides forward, turning around the staircase in order to start climbing stairs. John glances at Victor, who seems to be sharing similar thoughts to the blonde. When did Sherlock get a call?

They follow though, and Mr. Peterson waves goodbye to them, heading down the hall and out the front door of the building. Once they're on the second floor, Sherlock's arm snatches out, pulling both men to the wall. John's caught in surprise, but Victor just slides with the movement, as though he were conditioned to Sherlock's movements. Which, if Victor is an old friend, is entirely plausible.

“Shhh,” Sherlock hushes them, leaning his head back against the wall and listening to the sound of the door downstairs close.

Victor tilts his head at Sherlock. "You don't believe Kate did it then?"

The detective snorts. "Did you look at her? Her fingernails are perfectly filed, and dainty. There’s nothing but a few needle pricks on her thumb – which only shows that she’s not very good at hand sewing.” He shakes his head. “No, she’s not used to heavy work, or for fighting for anything. And did you see her neck?”

Sherlock gestures to his own neck. “Definitely bruises on her neck. Someone _did_ try to strangle her. Plus, did you notice the way she kept glancing at her husband?” He presses his fingers to his lips – something John was coming to silently call his ‘thinking pose’. “Crime occurred last night, but no one called the police until this morning? Highly suspicious. Why wait? Unless you had something to hide.”

“Kate isn’t hiding anything!” Victor cries out, jumping at the chance to defend the woman. Sherlock waves his head. “Oh, keep the blood in your skull.” He mumbles, his fingers migrating to his chin. “No, Kate’s not the one hiding anything. Before she spoke, she always looked at Mr. Peterson – as if she were checking to see if her words would pass through a screen test. And then there’s the issue of the door…”

Sherlock’s fingers slip into the pocket of the raincoat, and he pulls out a single key. Victor blinks. “You swapped jackets with Wilson?”

The detective winks at the bloke, smirking. “Do try to keep up Trevor dear.” Victor just laughs, a smile spreading across his face – and John somehow gets the feeling he got a peek into what their relationship was once like.

Sherlock pushes himself off of the wall, and starts walking down the stairs, John and Victor jumping to follow him and hear his deductions. “Mr. Peterson said that all the doors in the house open from the inside in, unless you have a key. He told the police that the French doors in the back were open when he got home – but why would they have been? It rained last night. Having the doors open would only encourage rain inside. Plus – there was nothing indoors that was wet.” He glances at John as he steps off the last stair. “I don’t know if you recall, but there was a ferocious wind last night.”

God. Last night. Was it really less than twenty-four hours ago that Ian had showed up with Dominick’s dog tags, and John had fallen asleep in Sherlock’s bed? It seemed like ages ago.

“I think,” Sherlock starts, bending over to insert the key into the keyhole, twisting it until the lock clicks open. “That someone opened up the French doors, and scattered some jewelry to make it _look_ like a robbery had simply gone wrong.” He pushes the door open, and strides inside, the other two following him.

“Why else wait to call the police?” He asks, stepping forward and looking about the room. “Unless you wanted to cover up an attempted murder.”

“You think Wilson tried to kill Kate?” Victor exclaims, his mouth forming the surprised shape of an O.

“’I don’t like getting my hands dirty.” Sherlock quotes slowly, and it chills John’s blood to hear Sherlock quoting Moriarty from that letter yesterday. The detective takes in a deep breath, glancing at John. “It seems like there’s more than one person in this city who follows those same rules.”

He glances over at Victor, a confident smirk on his lips. “And I don’t think – I know. I just need to prove it.”

“And how are we going to do that?” Victor asks, moving to sit down on the arm of the couch, looking up at the detective as if he knows the answers to all of life’s problems. Sherlock smirks, fingers picking up his phone, his other hand holding his cigarette and the key. “Two keys, right? This one here,” He dials a number, lifting the phone to his ear. “And the second one _should_ be in Kate’s bag. I bet you it’s not there.”

Before either other man has a chance to question how Sherlock came to that conclusion, the detective speaks. “Lestrade? Yes, I need you to release Mrs. Peterson. Let her come back home.”

There’s a pause. “Yes, with her bag.” He lifts his fag to his lips, taking a draw of it and blowing out smoke as he listens to the man over the phone. “Alright, fine. I’ll give you further instructions when she gets here.”

He clicks his phone off and slides it into his pocket. Sherlock then holds out his hand to John, who steps forward to take the key that Sherlock is offering. “Just hold that, will you?”

“Sherlock, what are you planning?” John asks as he curls his fingers around the key, peering up at the detective.

“Well,” Sherlock starts, taking another drag of his cigarette. “If Mrs. Peterson is innocent, as I suspect, then she won’t be able to open the front door. She’ll have to come around through the back door.”

“Won’t she?” Victor asks, tilting his head. “She has a key in her bag. She never takes it out.”

The detective chuckles, and smiles to himself. “Oh, don’t make me spoil it all now before our guests arrive.”

Victor snorts, and John can’t help but smile. “Still as cryptic as usual.” Victor mutters, shaking his head – but there’s a smile on his face. “I have missed you Sherlock.”

Sherlock swallows, and with the way those blue eyes dart to the ground, the entire mood of the room fades to somber. Soft smoke swirls out of Sherlock’s lips, his cigarette smoking between his fingers.

“You decided to leave.” Sherlock says softly, eyes still on the ground. He flicks a bit of ash off the end of his cigarette, and John doesn’t have the heart to tell him he really should have done that in a tray. “‘America is where all the action happens, Sherlock.’ you said to me.” He nods his head, swallowing hard. “You said you felt trapped by this city. You needed to get out, and experience new things – new things to inspire you for your novels.”

The bloke takes a hard drag of his cigarette, and John could almost describe the way he blows out the smoke as angry. “I understand that. I really do.” His eyes lift, icy blue on forest green. “But you did leave. And I moved on from that.”

Victor’s lips press together and he nods his head. “I always was second to Dominick, wasn’t I?”

Sherlock's eyes flare up and he takes in a deep breath. “Don't you say that.” He mutters, and his words are dark. John is on the verge of stepping in and breaking them up – but he holds himself back. This is something they need to get out of their system. This is something that Sherlock needs to deal with and come to terms with. So he leans against the wall and watches, still but ready to jump in if anything comes to blows.

“I was though, wasn't I?” Victor snaps, his eyes shadowed with hurt at the accusation that rings true – even in the way Sherlock reacts to the words. The detective glances away, hardly for more than a second, but enough that it demonstrates the truth of Victor's words. “You had absolutely no interest in love, or relationships, or sex, but along comes a little redhead who wiggles his hips and flirts with you, and you're panting away like a dog for a bone.”

John watches as Sherlock clenches his jaw, fingers curling into fists – holding himself back. It strikes John that Victor might not know that Sherlock had married Dominick.

“You knew,” Victor starts, taking in a deep breath. “How could you not? Sherlock Holmes, boy genius. How could you not know that I was in love with you?” He shakes his head, looking down at the floor. “When Dominick was around, I was allowed to come around too – because Dominick was just like that, wasn't he? He loved to be loved, and give love in return.” Green eyes snort and he shakes his head. “The more the merrier, he always said. Especially when it came to sex.”

Green eyes lift to blue – which are preoccupied in staring at the golden amber at the end of his fag. “That was the only time I ever got to touch you. When the three of us were together. When it was the three of us, I could touch you, hold you, kiss you, tell you that I loved you – and it wasn't a big deal, because it was the three of us, and we all shared the same feelings.”

He swallows hard, and John takes to staring at his shoes. “I loved you, Sherlock. I loved you more than anyone in the world. But you fell in love with him, instead of me. And while you were more than willing to have a friends with benefits relationship with me – I didn't want that to be the rest of my life.”

John glances up to see the man biting his lower lip. “Do you understand? That's why I left. Not because of my writing – god, I love London as much as you do.” Deep breath. “No, I left London to get away from you. I thought, if I put as much distance between us as I could, then I could get rid of my feelings and let you by happy with Dominick. That's why I didn't call when I came back to visit Kate. I wasn't planning on contacting you at all – because I was giving myself up so that you could be happy.”

There's a stretch of silence – one where no one really wants to look directly at each other. Sherlock tilts his head back and blows another puff of smoke into the air, and John starts debating opening up a window. “I married that redhead.” He says softly, his eyes closing for a moment. “We were married for a year before he died.” The detective swallows hard. “We had been talking about adopting a kid, or even getting a surrogate mother, because Dominick wanted to have a little kid, and I just couldn't say no to him.”

His eyes stay close, leaning back against a chair in the room. “It was early morning on a Tuesday. The sun was out – first time it had stopped raining in what seemed like a month, but had really only been a week and a half.” Victor and John are caught, spellbound as the sorrowful words leak out of Sherlock's lips. “The alarm on Dominick’s watch woke me up. I was supposed to go to the bank and take out some money. We were going to go on a bit of a holiday so we would have time to talk about kids, without letting either of our work interfering.”

Sherlock heaves in a deep breath, fingers fiddling with his fag. “I didn't want to go though. To the bank. The bed was warm, and I was so tired.” He takes a drag of his cigarette – and he must be aware that both pairs of eyes in the room are on him, but he doesn't show it. “I had been working on a case for the past six nights, and it kept me up really late, and I hadn't gotten to sleep much.” He swallows hard. “I was supposed to go to the bank that day. It was my job to go to the bank. But Dominick saw how tired I was.”

John notices how Sherlock's fingers in his free hand have started curling into a fist again. “He... he told me to sleep. He said, 'Sherlock, go back to sleep. I'll deal with the bank, okay? I'll be here when you wake up.'” John's heart breaks when a tear escapes closed eyelids, rolling down sharp cheekbones and falling off Sherlock's chin. The detective doesn't even bother to move to wipe it away. “But he wasn't.” Sherlock's voice is higher with those last couple words, and his lips purse together, trembling.

“He wasn't there.” He takes in a deep breath and opens his eyes – and it tears John's heart apart to see how hauntingly beautiful those eyes are, turning a sharp crystalized green from the moisture in his eyes. “He was dead, and I didn't even say 'I love you' to him before he died.” He lower lip trembles, and another tear escapes, tracing its own path down Sherlock's face – tears that the detective steadfast ignores. “I don't remember the last thing I said to him.”

The room is dead quiet, and Victor's face is full of regret. John glances down at his shoes, counting the little dots in the floor carpet. Victor might have been in love with Sherlock – but he was over it now. He was with Kate, and they were alive. But Sherlock was probably still in love with Dominick, and the redhead was dead.

John had never felt so terribly alone in his life before.

Sherlock loved Dominick so much. All those memories – all those times Sherlock just kind of fades out of the conversation... the detective thinks he doesn't notice, but John does. He knows the darker haired man must be thinking of Dominick – how could he not be when his lips tweak into that pleased little smile of his? That kind of love... something that brought out the best in someone, and brought them down to their worst without the other person... how on earth can John even begin to compete with that?

There's a scratching at the door, and both Victor and John jump slightly. The only reaction Sherlock has is to wipe the tears off his face with the sleeve of Mr. Paterson's jacket, sniffling and fixing his eyes on the door. From inside the room, they can hear the sound of a key trying to be forced into the lock – but the door doesn't open, and nothing happens. There's a frustrated groan from outside the door, and heels click away down the hall, a door shutting close.

Sherlock's fingers whip out his phone, and John watches as the man pulls up the camera, switching it to video. He stands so he's in front of the French doors, and he starts recording, just waiting and watching. Neither John nor Victor have the heart to say anything.

When Kate rounds the corner of the back, and turns so that she's looking through the French doors, she lets out a gasp, her fingers covering her chest. “Oh!” She cries out, and then laughs, a smile stretching across her face. “You three startled me.” She walks fully up to the door, and Sherlock opens them for her, letting the woman walk in from the pouring rain, closing an umbrella as she strides inside.

“Oh, Victor.” She smiles happily as she leans her umbrella against the wall, quickly stepping up to him and wrapping her arms around him, throwing herself into an embrace that he returns wholeheartedly. “They released me. I was so relieved. The Detective Inspector said that you and the detective had a clue as to who was really behind everything.”

“ _Consulting_ Detective.” Sherlock corrects under his breath, and John chuckles softly as the man closes the doors shut, turning his phone-camera around to face Victor and Kate.

“Mrs. Peterson, can you answer me something?” He asks, stepping forward to get her face in view of the camera. She glances up and seems a bit off put by the camera in her face, and she glances up at Victor with a confused expression. However, the green-eyed man just shrugs his shoulders.

Kate turns out of Victor's arms to face Sherlock. “Yes, alright.”

Sherlock's lips quirk. “How come you couldn't get into your flat through the front door?”

Kate digs into her purse. “You know, that's the funniest thing,” She starts, and she pulls out a key, handing it over to Sherlock – who snatches the thing out of her hands. “It wouldn't fit into the lock. And I haven't the foggiest why.”

“John,” Sherlock spits out his name, holding out his hand, the key Kate had given him in his hand. “Do me a favour, and would you examine the key Mrs. Peterson had in her bag? Compare it side by side next to Mr. Peterson's key, and tell me if they match.”

John digs his hand into his pocket, pulling out Wilson's key. He takes Kate's key, and he holds them side-by-side, his eyes flickering over the two of them, his mouth set into a hard frown as he searches for differences. “Well, no!” He starts, his face melting into surprise. “These are two completely different keys.”

“Exactly.” Sherlock says, and he pauses the feed on his video after getting a shot of the side-by-side comparison of the two keys. “The key that was in Kate's bag doesn't belong to this flat. Instead, it belongs to the flat that Mr. Geoffrey Sweet lived in.”

Victor frowns slightly, tilting his head at the detective. “But how can you possibly know that?” He asks, but Sherlock already has his phone switched about to its call feature, and the device is pressed against his ear as he makes a call.

“Lestrade?” Sherlock smirks, and takes another drag of his cigarette, the length of the fag getting dangerously low. “Yes, everything is going fine. Listen, I need you to phone Mr. Peterson. Tell him that there’s something at his flat that you’d like a look at. Ask him to fetch it for you.”

He pauses, blowing out smoke as the rest of them glance about at each other, trying to figure out just exactly what the detective is planning. “Well, I don’t know what to say if he tells you to get it! You’re halfway clever Lestrade, think of something. That’s what your brain is there for.” Sherlock snaps the call off, and John rolls his eyes. Dear lord, it’s a good thing that Sherlock is good at what he does.

Sherlock flicks some ash of the end of his fag, and glances around the room. “Well, everyone get comfortable. We shouldn’t be waiting long, but standing around is just a bit unpleasant for the legs, isn’t it?”” He strides over to the left wall of the living room, where variety of alcohol bottles are on display, glasses to the right for frequent use. Blue eyes flicker over to find brown enveloped by green. “Do you mind?”

Kate shakes her head, and Sherlock pops the top on one of the scotch bottles, pouring the golden liquid into a glass, sloshing it about inside the cup. He fills it halfway and puts the bottle back down. His fingers curl around the glass, bringing it to his lips and drowning the whole thing, smacking his lips afterwards.

“You want a glass John?” He asks, glancing over at the blonde, who shuffles his feet nervously and shakes his head. “No thank you. I’m not particularly thirsty.”

Victor and Kate both decline similarly when Sherlock offers them both a drink. He fills his glass up to the halfway point again, and John is filled with a rush of relief when he sees the detective merely sipping at the drink instead of guzzling it like a man parched in the middle of the desert.

There’s no conversation made this time. No one brings up the past, and everyone except Sherlock seem to be caught in their middle of their own personal raincloud. Sherlock, on the other hand, has decided that it’s okay to lounge out on the red velvet chair – looking like something straight out of a modeling magazine. What with the cigarette hanging from his lips, and the golden liquid in his hand and the collar of his coat turned up so he looks cool.

And then there’s his actual body too. His sharp cheekbones, dark and swirling coloured eyes, pouting cupid’s arch lips, and his damn legs spread out; relaxed and far too inviting. Practically begging someone to go over there and straddle his legs… taste the whiskey and smoke on his breath… to spread hot kisses on the revealed neck… fingers roaming over and under clothing, touching… Intoxicating and erotic.

John looks away and wanders over to the other side of the room to pour himself a drink.

Sherlock holds up his hand, fingers pressed to his lips in a sudden call for silence. John pauses in the middle of pouring his drink, and both Kate and Victor still in each other's arms. Outside of the room, the four can hear footsteps. Mr. Peterson.

John careful places the bourbon container back on the counter, barely making a sound. Sherlock's fingers have whipped out his phone again, starting up his video recorder – the camera focused on the door. For a moment, John is thankful for thin walls.

They listen as Mr. Peterson rustles around in the pockets of his coat – just now realizing that the coat is not his, and it must have been swapped with the detective's. John's heart is pounding in his throat, threatening to choke him to death in suspense. What if Mr. Peterson just decides to leave? What if he decides to come in? How would he come in? If he comes in... with John in possession of the man’s key to the flat, would that mean Mr. Peterson somehow stole Kate's key?

There's a sigh from outside, and a quiet shuffle. Then there's a scratching against the doorknob, and John watches in amazement as the knob turns and the door opens - and Mr. Peterson walks into the room.

The man doesn't realize that anything is wrong until after he's closed the door behind him - and when the door clicks shut and his eyes widen to take in Kate in the arms of Victor, John on the other side of the room, and Sherlock filming every moment on it, Mr. Peterson lets out a sigh, his shoulders falling.

Wilson strides across the room towards John, and he watches the man carefully, waiting to see what kind of move he'll make. But Mr. Peterson simply grabs a bottle of gin, and pours it into a glass, mixing it with some other substances. The man takes a sip of the drink, and turns around to face the party. “So, I suppose I've been caught red-handed, haven't I?”

John hears a small clink, and he looks down to see Mr. Peterson pressing a key against the table. He quickly picks it up and pulls out the other two keys, to examine them all together. The blonde nods his head and glances up, looking over at Sherlock. “This key is the same as the one you found in Mr. Peterson's jacket pocket.”

Sherlock smirks and shuts the camera on his phone off, sliding the device into his pocket. “Well, I do believe that's all the evidence we need, don't you?"

“I don't understand,” A quiet voice pipes up, and John glances up to see Kate looking at them in a mixture of awe and shock. “How did Wilson get my key? And how did you figure everything out?”

If John has learned anything from the past month: it's that Sherlock loves showing off. And Kate just handed a starving dog a meaty bone.

“Oh, it's quite simply, actually.” Sherlock's blue eyes drift over to the Mr. Peterson. “I must say, your plan was rather flawless, and I'd like to applaud you in your efforts. Your mistakes however, were your downfall. In theory, your plan would have enabled you to commit the perfect murder.”

“Sherlock,” John starts, and beckons the detective over to him. Sherlock looks a bit confused, but he walks over to John and bends over slightly so the blonde can whisper to him. “Sherlock, generally it's a good rule of thumb to not compliment people when they're planning on killing others.”

The detective frowns slightly, turning to look into John's eyes. “Not good?” John shakes his head, grimacing slightly, before bringing his drink to his lips again and sipping at it. Sherlock nods, his eyes showing that he's mulling over the new information at least – and then he stands up straight.

“Mr. Peterson,” Sherlock announces his name, and John leans against the table, preparing himself for a speech. “This all started when you discovered the love letter your wife wrote for Victor Trevor, is it not?” He doesn't wait for an answer. “You found the letters, and didn't know what to do with them. You were angry – you gave up your whole career as a professional tennis star in order to play housewife with a woman who didn't even love you.” Mr. Peterson growls, his eyes narrowing at the detective.

“So you thought you'd get a bit of revenge.” Sherlock continues, walking about the room in a wide circle, his hands moving slightly, the nub of a cigarette still in-between his fingers. “You found out that Kate had one letter in her purse – sentiment, people do that – and so when you were out to dinner with Kate, you stole her purse and confiscated the letter. You put the purse somewhere where it would be found, but only several days later. You then started to blackmail your wife, saying that if she didn't pay up, that you would show the letter to her husband and ruin her marriage.”

Sherlock rolls his shoulder, inhaling a last quick drag of his cigarette before tossing the thing into the trashcan, the roll all tuckered out. “But that wasn't enough, was it?” He turns, eyes on Mr. Peterson, twinkling with amusement. “You didn't want just a little money, and you didn't want her to feel a little guilty. You wanted _all_ of her money, and you wanted her gone so you could go after other women without a guilty conscious.” Sherlock's lips tweak slightly. “Am I close?”

“Pretty damn close.” Mr. Peterson chuckles, and Sherlock's lips tweak in a smile.

The detective continues walking around the room, coming to stand in front of the framed pictures hanging on the wall. “So, you thought you'd get rid of her. You got a hired thug, one of your old Uni buddies who was a bit on the wrong side of the law, and you paid him to come here and murder your wife, making it look like an accident.”

He licks his lower lip, fingers pressed under his chin. “You took Victor Trevor out to a party that night, thus leaving Kate all alone at work. All your hired goon had to do was come in here and kill her – and make it look like a robbery gone wrong in the process. But,” He raises a finger, and turns on his heels, looking over at Kate. “You're a very orderly woman.” He gestures about the house as if that explained his logic. “You follow a schedule, do you not?”

She nods her head, and Sherlock smirks again. “No dark circles under your eyes. You're a woman who gets plenty of rest, so you must go to bed early. Now, if you had gone to bed early, why was the man found dead in the living room?”

He turns to face Mr. Peterson. “You told her not to call the police last night, didn't you? Why would you have done that? Unless you knew that you had to cover up your tracks. Now,” He tilts his head at Kate. “Kate, did you call your husband last night?”

She shakes her head, her eyes stuck on the man who had tried to have her killed, her mouth agape slightly. “No.... no, I got out of bed because the phone rung. Wilson was on the other line.”

Sherlock gestures a hand towards her. “Mr. Sweet needed a signal. You would know of your wife's habits, so you told Mr. Sweet of this. You said you would call home, and Kate would come out, and that was his chance to kill her, and then trash the place to make it look like a failed robbery.”

“Things went wrong though, didn't they?” Sherlock smirks. “For one,” He turns his gaze over to Kate. “Your fingers, they're very badly pricked. Sewing needle, correct?” She nods her head, and he nods back. “Last night, Kate was working on some sewing over on the desk, but she left her things out instead of putting them away. When Mr. Steele attempted to kill her, she managed to grab the scissors and stab him in self defense.”

He turns back to Mr. Peterson. “And then we have the matter of the key. This little key,” He gestures over to John, who is still holding the keys in his hands. “Caused a number of miscalculations on your part. Miscalculation number one,” Sherlock sticks out his thumb. “Your watch,” His eyes dart down to the watch on Mr. Peterson's wrist. “It's broken. Hence, you phone late. Because you were late, your accomplice thought you were abandoning your plan. So he hid the key where you had left it out for him. How do I know you left the key out for him?” He smiles. “Only two keys to the apartment, correct? You needed yours. How else would you get in when you got home? But Kate didn't need hers. You took it, and hid it...”

Sherlock trails off, striding quickly for the door. His eyes flicker about for a moment, before he walks over to the carpeted stairs with a triumphant grin, showing how part of the carpet on one of the stairs could raise a little bit. Enough room to hide a small object without anyone noticing. Like a key. “Right here. So when Mr. Sweet thought the man was off, he hid the key back here. But!” He walks back into the room, joining the rest of them. “That's when the phone rang, and he sprung back into place – leaving the key where it was.”

He waves his hand, gesturing to the floor. “Now, he was killed by the scissors, and you heard the whole thing on the phone. She picked the phone up, called for help, and you said you'd come right home. Here is your second miscalculation.” He walks over to John and picks up the third key, the one different from the other two. “Because Mr. Sweet was dead, you assumed that the key in his pocket was your wife's. It wasn't though, because he had already put the key back. This key, this belongs to Mr. Sweet, and I take it, that will be proved if you take this key down to Mr. Sweet's flat.” Sherlock smiles. “So you took this key out of Mr. Sweet's pocket, and placed it back in her purse in order to avoid suspicion.”

“Now, you came home and sent your wife to bed because of the stressful situation. That's when you put the key in her purse. That's _also_ when you took the love letter that you stole from your wife, and you planted it on Mr. Sweet to make it look like your wife had killed him for attempting to blackmail her – instead self-defense.” He smirks, folding his arms over his chest, looking rather pleased with himself. “I miss anything?”

Mr. Peterson chuckles and drowns the rest of his glass. “No point in denying anything is there? You've got it all figured out. Wrapped up in a neat little bow.”

John shakes his head, a smile stretching on his face, his eyes locked on Sherlock's face. "Brilliant."

Sherlock makes another phone call to Greg, relaying his whole speech a second time over the phone while John and Mr. Peterson both finish up their drinks (John finishing his first, and Wilson finishing his third). The DI arrives with a couple men, and they cart Mr. Peterson away as Sherlock shares his video with Greg.

“I’ll call you sometime while I’m still in town.” Victor promises Sherlock, green eyes focused on blue ones. Sherlock gives Victor a soft smile, and shakes his head. “No you won’t.” He whispers softly, and then leans forward to press a gentle kiss upon Victor’s pink lips, soft and sweet – a goodbye kiss.

A kiss that has Victor wet at the eyes when they part, but he nods his head and steps forward again, kissing Sherlock again, their lips tracing, dedicating every line to memory, storing the touch and taste in the recess of their mind.

“I’ll never forget you.” Victor whispers softly to Sherlock when the two of them part, and his eyes linger on the detective before he turns to face John, walking towards the blonde and shaking his hand in thanks.

While their hands are connected, Victor pulls John close and whispers in his ear. “Without Dominick and I, he’s a bit lost. Please, I know he’s a real prick, but please help him. He just needs someone to love him.” Victor releases their hands, and turns without another word. His fingers slip into Kate’s, and the couple leaves the room after Greg’s team leaves with Mr. Peterson.

It’s not until Sherlock and John are back in a cab, driving back to Baker Street when someone finally speaks up.

“Sherlock,” The detective glances over at the sound of his name, and John swallows, taking in a deep breath. “About what happened –”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” The detective mutters stubbornly, crossing his arms over his chest and looking out the window, the rain starting to let up and let out a bit of sunlight into the air.

John slides over in the backseat so he’s sitting next to Sherlock. “I know I’m pretty messed up.” He whispers softly, fingers brushing the darker haired man’s thigh, gently giving it a bit of a squeeze. “But you’re worse.”

Sherlock snorts, and John smiles, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to Sherlock’s jawline. “But, I really don’t care. You’re going to leave me behind sometimes – you’ve already forgotten me at cabs a half dozen times. I understand that. But, I do like you, and I’d like to try this.” Lips press up against Sherlock’s skin under his earlobe.

“Tonight… let’s not have it be one of those nights where you leave me for no reason.” His teeth graze Sherlock’s earlobe. “Please, give time to give you a waste of time.” His tongue slides out to lick at Sherlock’s skin. “Don’t make me give you a reason to leave me behind.”

Sherlock chuckles softly, leaning back in his seat, and those cold fingers wrap around John’s, squeezing them tightly. “Sometimes I think you’re like a contamination.”

John snorts and his tongue laps at Sherlock’s skin, and he notices the detective has closed his eyes. “I’ll be your dirty little disease.” He murmurs, teasing, tone dropping to something deep and seductive.

The detective’s lips tilt up into a smile. “Then it’s a good thing you’re a doctor. You can cure me when I get infected.”

The blonde’s response is to bite Sherlock’s earlobe – which only causes the detective to grab John by the collar of his jumper and firmly press their lips together.


	10. La La

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> La La with Lyrics: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8jTZOebDQ4Q

Sherlock lets out a deep breath, his eyes closed as his fingers press against the strings of his violin, drawing his bow across them and coaxing out a soft tune. The room is filled with mournful chords, dripping regretful moans across every piece of furniture like a black, ink cloak. In his mind, the music throws dark shadows across the walls, beginning at his person. He inhales deeply, shifting the position of the wood against his chin slightly.

His robe swirls around him as he strides across the room to gaze out at the dreary London landscape below; blue and reflecting the somber mood of his playing. The room smells of smoke – Sherlock having just put out a cigarette in an ashtray sitting in front of him. His fingers pluck at another string, his mind wandering amoung a field of memories in the morning hours of the day.

_“What would you do if I died?”_

_Sherlock picked his head up, and turned to glance at his fiancé where they laid together on the grass on a hill. “Why would you bring up something like that?” The detective asked, his fingers curled around Dominick's and squeezed his fingers tightly. It’s not a topic that Sherlock wanted to think about while the two of them were on vacation._

_“I don't know,” The man turned his head, green eyes connecting with blue, lips twisted into an expression of inquiry. “Just, what if? You know? Our jobs aren't exactly safe.”_

_Sherlock's thumb gently brushed against the back of Dominick's hand. The redhead’s skin bristled with goose pimples at the delicate touch, and the detective cherished the small reaction. “Is this because of what happened last week?”_

_He watched as the redhead's jaw clenched. “Maybe.”_

_The detective gave the man a soft smile and leant forward to brush their lips together. “Dominick, it doesn't matter how many thieves shoot at me – I'm far too clever to get hit.” Green eyes snort, and the police officer shakes his head. “You're really full of it.”_

_Sherlock's smile softened, and he tugged Dominick closer, letting their bodies curl together against the itch of the grass. Red hair tickled the underside of his jaw as Dominick rested his head against the detective's chest. “I don't know what I would do if you died.” The whisper finally left Sherlock’s lips in a soft wisp as his fingers traced a path down the redhead's back._

_Sherlock swallowed and pressed a kiss to the top of Dominick's head. “You've been such a large part of my life... I don't know how I would react if you suddenly weren't there.”_

_Fingers curled around Sherlock's waist, holding the man tightly. “Promise me Sherlock... If something happens to me – be it an accidental car crash or getting shot on duty – please promise me you'll move on. Find someone else to love instead of drowning back in that depression of yours. Please?”_

_Dominick raised his eyes to Sherlock, eyes glimmering with the knowledge they contained. He knew about Sherlock's drug issues, how badly he could be hurt by cruel words, about the conflict with his brother and how much the detective loved the redhead – he knew every little secret that the raven-haired man kept locked up within his heart._

_Sherlock swallowed and smiled, leaning forward to press their foreheads together, his lips forming the first lie of their relationship. “I promise.”_

Sherlock's fingers slide down one of the strings, a sharp zip to the tune he's playing. His feet have taken him to the couch, where he lounges out – back pressed against the cushions and legs hoisted up on the table, fingers still cradling the violin. The bow draws across the strings, eliciting gentle sounds that lap upon his skin, showering him with the emotion that he doesn’t want to feel in his heart.

_“Did you write this note?”_

_Sherlock lifted his eyes from the book that he currently held in his hands. He raised an eyebrow at the lanky blonde figure standing in the doorway of his dorm – a suitcase clutched in his right hand, and a piece of lined paper clasped in his left. His eyes flickered over the man, picking off little details about him._

_Blonde hair, shagged around the ears._

_Green eyes. Long lashes._

_Cat hair stuck to his legs – just one cat._

_Comes from a bit of money, but doesn’t like to flaunt it._

_Not in a relationship._

_Gay._

_“I assume you can’t read, otherwise you would know perfectly well who that note is from.” Sherlock responded curtly, eyes turned back down to his novel to continue reading. The man will walk away in a moment. After all – all the rest had. Two months into his first year of Uni, and every dorm mate Sherlock had had, switched dorms within three days._

_“Of course I can – ” The blonde started out, and then bristled before Sherlock again and his fingers crumpled Sherlock’s note into a ball. “Who do you think you are, that you’re so special that no one can stand you?”_

_Sherlock’s eyes flickered up again, and he picked up his bookmark to slide the material between the two pages of his novel. He slid the book over onto his bedside table. His hands folded together over his lap, and his eyes connected with the eyes of the stranger._

_“You’re obviously not a transfer from within this University, otherwise you would already know why no one can stand me. You might be from another University, but your fingertips are stained with a blue ink that’s generally customary when one works with a printing press – bit old fashioned, but you’re not really in it for the money, are you? Your clothes are well made, highly fashionable. I in fact know the price of that exact jacket you’re wearing because my brother owns the same one – and it’s not something to sneeze at. However, your shoes – moderately stylish, but the edges are all scuffed up. New jacket, but old shoes? Says you come from a bit of money, but you don’t necessarily want to flaunt it. Or quite possibly that you’re trying to make a good impression on me – sorry to disappoint you.”_

_He paused to swallow; mildly amused by the way that this character’s mouth was gaping open. “You also own one cat – couldn’t bring her to the University of course, school policy, but her hair is all over your trousers. You might want to get that cleaned, as one of the boys down the hall has a cat allergy.” Sherlock tilted his head slightly at the blonde and his eyes flickered over him, but his hands were still folded in his lap. “You’re not married, nor engaged, nor are you in any sort of relationship. The lack of a ring, or a tan from a ring, explains the first two. Your clothes explain the last. You’re dressed up – wanting to impress. Could possibly mean you’re going to visit a significant other later, but it’s not even nine in the morning. You wouldn’t wear something that fancy so early for nothing. Looking for options then.”_

_Sherlock moved his hands finally – reached out to pick up a glass of water he had set out beside the bed. He brought the glass close and sipped at the liquid, before he placed the glass back onto the table. “You’re also gay – though not flamingly so. You can tell by the bit of product in your hair and your tired clubber’s eyes. Which was also a clue that you weren’t in a relationship.” He folds his hands back over his lap. “Do you need any help getting your things and leaving?”_

_The blonde stood there for a moment, and Sherlock could practically see the gears in his head as they worked, moved, twisted out to try and figure out how it was that Sherlock could have known that. And then the strained expression on the blonde’s face melted away, and his lips twisted into a smile. “Mate, if you think I’m moving out just because your fantastically observant – then you’ve got another thing coming.”_

_Sherlock blinked – his turn to look surprised. The blonde walked over to the bed next to Sherlock’s and plopped his suitcase down on the vacant mattress. He turned towards Sherlock and held his hand out, a smile on his face. “Name’s Victor Trevor. I assume you’re Sherlock Holmes?”_

_“Yeah…” Sherlock nodded slightly, a bit puzzled, trying to work out why this Victor Trevor character didn’t run at that strip down of his personality. He reached his hand out and slid his fingers into Victor’s._

_“It said in the note.” Victor smiled and shook Sherlock’s hand with a strong, confident grip. The dark-haired man laughed slightly, his own lips turned into a smile. “I did sign my name.”_

_“And what lovely calligraphy you have.” Victor replied, their hands sliding apart as they smiled at each other._

Sherlock’s lips tweak up slightly at the memory of the first meeting between him and Victor. He had been so surprised at the man’s reaction… it hadn’t taken long for the two of them to become friends.

In retrospect, it’s such a shame that that friendship had to cease.

He sighs softly, and draws the bow across the strings one last time, resulting in a piercing screech to zip through the room, it’s ugly sound bouncing off the walls and drawing the hairs on the back of Sherlock’s neck to stand on end.

“Sherlock!”

John’s voice is muddled by sleep, and the detective hears the blonde groaning in the next room over as he tries to pull himself out of bed. Sherlock places his violin back in its case, fingers soft and gentle as he deals with the instrument. He listens as John’s feet shuffle against the floor, and the blonde emerges from Sherlock’s room.

“Do you really have to play like that this early?” John grumbles, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand – and it really shouldn’t be as cute as it is. The blonde is wrapped up in Sherlock’s duvet, one hand clutching the blankets close to his chest while the other wipes sleep out of his eyes. His hair is all messed up – sticking out at the sides, standing up on end, and pushed back out of his eyes. All natural sex hair.

Courtesy of your friendly neighborhood Consulting Detective.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and leans forward, picking out another cigarette from his case set on the table. He doesn’t notice John’s frown until the blonde stomps over to him and snatches the fag out of his fingers.

“No!” John sternly demands – the force of which causes Sherlock to blink up at him in surprise. “The room already smells more like the inside of a furnace than I would care to admit. Don’t you know how bad these are for you?” Sherlock watches blankly as John seizes the pack of cigarettes from the table, taking possession of the narcotic. “I’ll go down to the store later today and buy you some nicotine patches, okay?”

Sherlock blinks up at John, trying to process the firm request. John clutches the blanket closer around his person, shuffling his feet. “Oh, don’t give me those puppy eyes. I was talking with Greg the other day and he told me that you’d tried to quit before. I’m not taking away your rights.”

He doesn’t say anything, and neither does John. Time ticks by, and the two men just stare silently at each other. John is the first to crack.

The blonde sighs heavily and sits down beside Sherlock on the couch, still holding the pack of fags in his hand. “What were you playing earlier? I don’t think I recognized it from any of your earlier playing.”

Sherlock glances over at his violin, and tilts his head slightly. “I was playing a tune that I used to play for Victor.” He says quietly, his voice low and languid.

For a mere moment, something familiar flickers over John’s face – something that reminds him of his old Uni friend. Was that… jealousy?

But no, the next second the look is replaced by John’s familiar soft smile. “It’s been a week and you’re still moping over him. Why don’t you call him? If you miss him so much. Invite him over to tea.”

Sherlock shakes his head firmly, letting out a deep breath and shaking himself of his lethargic mood. “No. Victor Trevor belongs to my past, and thus where he should stay. That part of my life is over with, and I need to move on from that.”

His words sound more convincing than he feels.

He turns his head towards John, and forces his lips into the barest of a smile. “I would appreciate you getting some nicotine patches.” The detective leans forward and presses a soft kiss against John’s lips – lips he had been ravaging just last night, and lips he looks forward to ravaging again.

John smiles against Sherlock’s lips, and he feels those trained Doctor’s hands brushing against the back of his neck. They’re withdrawn much too soon for Sherlock’s taste, but the sight of John’s pink lips is just as sweet.

The doctor stands and Sherlock’s long fingers reach out and grab the edge of the duvet – and luckily John didn’t have a very tight hold on the duvet, for the blanket fell to the ground when John stood up. Revealing the ex-army doctor in all his naked glory.

“Enjoying yourself?” John laughs as Sherlock’s eyes flutter over tanned skin, admiring how John has kept himself in shape since his army days – and still managed to keep his tan in overcast London while Sherlock himself remains nearly as white as a sheet. His eyes linger over the scarring in John’s shoulder from the bullet wound – he’d traced that mark with his tongue two nights ago, and it’s probably one of Sherlock’s favourite spots on the blonde. And not just because of the erogenous moans John graces him with when that spot is licked.

“Very much, actually.” Sherlock replies cheekily as John snatches up the duvet again, wrapping himself up and hiding his body from Sherlock’s eyes. It doesn’t matter much anymore though – the past week since the murder involving Victor’s new sweetheart has been filled with many naked limbs, sweat and sheets. He’s licked every inch of John’s body and felt hands touching him and pulling him; seemingly always yearning for more.

Other than the hours that John was at work each day, the two had spent the rest of their time in Sherlock’s bedroom. While John was at work, Sherlock spent some time investigating Geoffrey Sweet (the dead man from last weeks murder with a tattoo of an eagle) but his files mostly lead into dead ends. Nothing that could tie him to Moriarty.

“Prick.” John returns, smirking, as he wanders into the kitchen, setting about making a morning cup of tea. Sherlock smiles, rather pleased with him. He would call John his favourite one-night-stand – but it’s been much longer than one night.

The thought makes him pause, tilting his head slightly. His eyes are on John, but he’s not really looking at the blonde – more of just thinking as his eyes glaze over.

They’ve been having regular sex for the past week. The incident in Bart’s morgue was just the beginning. They’ve been living in the same flat for nearly two months now. They make each other meals (well, John forces Sherlock to eat take-out or some home cooked meals), share credit cards (actually only thrice when Sherlock lent John his because the doctor had gotten in a row in the machine) and John spoons him in bed after they shag.

Are they in a relationship?

Does John think they’re in a relationship?

What does Sherlock think?

Well, it’s very convenient and _fantastic_ sex. It’s useful when it comes to paying rent and utilities. And it’s…. nice…. that someone is looking out for him.

But no. Not a relationship. Sherlock can’t do that again. He’ll just end up getting John killed – just like Ian said.

Sherlock shakes himself out of his somber thoughts – his violin moodiness had dragged his thoughts down without releasing him. He pushes himself off the couch, robe swirling about him as he glides gracefully over the John in the kitchen. The detective wraps his arms around John’s middle, resting his chin on the man’s shoulder. “So,” He starts, pressing a kiss to John’s neck, sparing the barest lick to John’s earlobe. “You’ve got the day off work… whatever should we do?” His tone his low and seductive – and he can see the reaction on John’s face.

“Are you ever satisfied?” John asks, shaking his head and laughing as he pours tea into two cups, moving effortlessly around Sherlock’s hindrance of a frame. “No, we’re not going to shag again today. I thought we’d shake things up a bit and do something different.”

Sherlock pouts and his fingers brush against the duvet, sliding under the brush against the warm skin of John’s stomach. “We could shag out on the balcony. That would be shaking things up a bit.”

John snorts and worms his way out of Sherlock’s grasp. “Honestly – nothing on your mind but that.” He holds up a cup of tea for Sherlock, and the detective takes it without a word of thank-you, sipping at the liquid and smiling when he notices that John had already put milk and sugar into his drink. “No, I was thinking I’d take you out to the orchestra. They’re playing in a couple hours and I thought you would enjoy it.”

Sherlock stands there, the words entering into his head but somehow not computing for him. John keeps on talking. “The whole concert goes on for a couple hours, but they’ve got a number of good violin players, and you listen to all that classical music, so I thought it would be something you’d enjoy. Get you out of the house a bit, you know? You’ll get cabin fever if you stay in this flat too long.”

John lifts his cup of tea to his lips, taking a small sip. “And maybe an actual dinner after that. I think I’ll hurl if I have to eat another container of take out Thai food.” He pauses, tilting his head at Sherlock. “Unless you have a case to work on. You didn’t last night, so I just assumed…”

Sherlock shakes himself out of his daze, John’s words spinning around in his head and finally gaining some level of meaning. “No, no I don’t have a case.” He pauses, looking down at John, still holding his cup of tea. “You want to take me to listen to an orchestra?”

“Yeah.” John nods, taking a sip of his tea. “Problem?”

Sherlock simply reaches out with one hand, fingers grabbing the duvet, and he pulls John close to him, leaning down to press their lips firmly together.

With both of them holding teacups, it’s a bit awkward with nothing touching but their lips – but at the same time… it’s rather sweet. John pulls away first, but he’s still close enough that his lips brush against Sherlock’s as he speaks. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes, I’ll go’?”

Sherlock chuckles softly against John’s lips. “Yes.” He replies and presses their lips together again. His fingers move his teacup to the counter, and then he takes John’s from him and places it on the counter with his. This gives John the space to lean closer, press Sherlock against the counter and mesh their bodies together in a warm embrace.

John’s tongue traces Sherlock’s lower lip, and the detective’s hands start to sneak down John’s back, reaching for his arse – when there’s a sudden whirring sound coming from the kitchen counter.

Against his mouth, John groans quietly before peeling their lips apart – much to Sherlock’s annoyance. He sighs heavily and stalks around the kitchen counter, clutching his blanket close to his body as he picks up his phone, eyes scanning the words that appear in a text. Sherlock watches as John simply turns his phone off, leaving the message alone before placing the device back on the counter.

“My sister.” He mutters in form of an apology, picking up his tea from where Sherlock had gotten rid of it earlier. The blonde sips at the liquid before moving over to the toaster, picking up a piece of bread and starting to make a bit of breakfast. “She’s been trying to contact me all week.”

Sherlock tilts his head slightly – they’ve been living together for the past two months and this is the first he’s heard of John’s sister. He remembers knowing that John had a sister from the slight hint of perfume hanging around him when Sherlock picked him up at that bar six years ago. Obviously their relationship isn’t in a good place, and Sherlock can hardly lecture him on keeping up good relations with family.

It’s not like his family is the stunning picture of perfection.

John slides two pieces of bread into the toaster, setting them up to start and then turning around to face Sherlock. For a moment, the blonde doesn’t say anything – he just stares at Sherlock.

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny. Normally he doesn’t have a problem with people looking at him – but usually it’s under a withering gaze, or an evil eye. The way John is looking at him… it’s not even a look of lust, or one of love. John is just looking at him as if he could read every little secret that was written upon Sherlock’s soul.

It looked like John knew him through and through and wasn’t judging him for it.

The blonde cracks a small smile when his toast pops, and then he turns around to make his breakfast, silence falling upon the flat. John gives Sherlock a piece of toast, of which he dutifully nibbles at until he’s swallowed every last crumb. John chuckles when Sherlock finishes, motioning to a bit of jam on the corner of Sherlock’s lip.

John licks it off with his tongue.

Which, of course, sets them off snogging again – but it’s not a mad desperate sort of snog. It’s the sort of snog where John sits in Sherlock’s lap and their lips greet each other as familiar old friends.

It’s the sort of kissing Sherlock used to do with Dominick.

Thankfully John pulls himself off Sherlock, kissing him sweetly again before saying that he had to go for a shower, and _no, Sherlock cannot join him._ He chuckles softly at that, but allows John to go, taking a moment to just sit in his chair and relax until he hears the water running.

Sherlock runs his fingers through his hair, fingernails scratching at his scalp as his mouth unlatches in a yawn. His eyes drift around the flat, not really thinking about much. At some point, his eyes focus on John’s phone – curiosity over the blonde’s relationship with his sister attempting to prod him into snooping.

The detective turns his head away – no, he’s not going to snoop into John’s life. He would hate it if John did the same to him; so he’ll respect the doctor and leave his phone alone.

His eyes return to his board of clippings on the wall, the blaringly bold name stuck in the middle seeming to reach out and strike him across the face – mocking him as he does so.

_Do you see this Sherlock? See all that I’ve done and gotten away with, and never once have you caught me._

_You’ll never catch me. You’ll never catch me._

_Can’t catch me, I’m the ginger bread man! Heehee!_

_Look at Sherly – so silly. You’re normal. Boring. You’ll never figure it out._

Sherlock grimaces and forces his eyes away, fingers raking through his hair again – and scratching at his scalp just a little harder as a small form of punishment. Why can’t he solve this?! He’s missing something… some part of the puzzle…

_You couldn’t save Dominick, and you won’t be able to save John either._

He lets out a deep sigh, and has to force his fingers to uncurl when he realizes that he’s tightened them into fists. The detective pushes himself out of his chair and stalks over to the board, his eyes narrowed at the name.

“I will solve you.” He hisses at the panel, eyes flickering over the various newspaper clippings and pictures he has tapped to the wall. “I will find you, Moriarty. And you can expect no mercy then.”

He nods his head, satisfied for now – but still making a note in his head to refuse to let this case drop down to a cold case. There is no way that he’s letting Moriarty get away. His fingers tap against his chin as he eyes stare at that name – maybe he ought to do a bit of digging on John’s friend James Moriarty.

No matter what John says, that man is hiding something. Sherlock knows it, John knows it – Jim knows it. It’s only a matter of time until Sherlock finds out exactly what it is.

Sherlock hears the water shut off, and listens for a moment to the sounds of John milling about the bathroom, shaving and changing into clothes and brushing his teeth. He smiles softly, closing his eyes for a moment as he savours the purely domestic sounds. He’s missed hearing things like that.

Eventually Sherlock picks himself up, deciding his teeth need to be brushed too (actually, it’s just to pounce on John in the bathroom). He slides into the bathroom and smiles at John – who’s standing with his hip against the counter, trousers on and undone, shirt half on and a toothbrush sticking out of his mouth as his fingers rub some lotion onto his neck.

The blonde glances over at him and snorts, shaking his head as his fingers return to his toothbrush, brushing his teeth for a bit longer before he leans over the sink and spits out the blue mix of toothpaste and saliva. “Hope you’re not here for a kiss.” John starts, picking his toothbrush up and sliding it back into his mouth, brushing at his lower teeth and he turns to look over at Sherlock.

The detective chuckles softly, his eyes flickering up and down John’s body. “How could I not when you’re standing there looking ever so delectable?”

John snorts and rolls his eyes, leaning over and spitting again. He rinses his toothbrush under the running water and then fills glass; rinses his mouth with the water and then spits out into the sink again before he finally shuts the water off. He places his toothbrush over in its holder and glances over at Sherlock again. “Are you going to do something productive, or are you just going to continue undressing me with your eyes?”

“Now, that all depends on your definition of productive.” Sherlock smirks, eyeing John's undone trousers with a bit of a smirk. Although he does open a drawer on his side of the bathroom and pull out his toothbrush and toothpaste – respecting John's request of no sex for the day. He would rather have sex, but he doesn't mind humoring John's appeal.

The blonde snorts at Sherlock's remark, but the detective doesn't miss the soft smile that sneaks onto his lips when he pulls out his toothbrush. Silently, Sherlock brushes his teeth and washes his face while John rubs lotion onto his cleanly shaven face, doing up his trousers as he watches the way Sherlock moves.

“What're you thinking?” Sherlock asks as he spits into the sink, eyes glancing over at John before he grabs a glass to gargle water in his mouth. The blonde chuckles, a humorous smirk atop his lips in response to the query. “Shouldn't you be the one telling me what I'm thinking? With all of your genius, I would have thought you'd know.”

“Oh, piss off.” Sherlock mutters, picking a foot up to lightly kick John in the thigh – which only causes the blonde to howl with laughter, lips split into a wide grin. Which, of course, only causes Sherlock to smile. There is just something about the doctor's laughs that are a bit contagious.

“I was just thinking,” John starts quietly, leaning his hip against the counter as Sherlock uses a towel to wipe his lips dry, before his fingers run through his curls, bouncing them around on top of his head. “About all the events of the past couple weeks – about how crazy it is that I ran into you again.”

Sherlock's fingers slowly slide off the towel, and he turns in his spot to look at John, a curious expression threatening to fall over his features. “Really?” His words are softer than he meant them to be, but that's how they come out. With a swallow, Sherlock’s eyes flicker all over John, lingering for a moment on his lips.

John nods his head, a smile on his lips. “Yeah. I’m really glad I got to be friends with you.” He licks his lower lip, and Sherlock watches as blue eyes flicker out of the open door, and those lips turn upside down for a moment. “I just wish I could be of more use for your case. I feel horrible about the whole thing.”

Glancing back, Sherlock notices that from their position, it's possible to see his map of clues up on the wall. He tilts his head, considering. They have a few hours until the orchestra that John promised... and they can't have sex... they could do some research. John would be able to help – obviously; it would mostly be humoring the boy, as Sherlock isn’t really quite sure where he can go from here. Ever since his new lead last week turned out to be a dead end, Sherlock isn't certain as to where he ought to spend his energies.

 _Oh._ Of course – it’s possible that John doesn't realize that. They could go to the library, and he could put John on some meaningless task that will make the blonde think he's doing work for the detective... and while John is doing that, Sherlock could investigate his friend James Moriarty. He probably won’t be able to get the amount of detail that he wants from public records, but anything is worth a shot at this point.

He turns his head back to John, and a smile tweaks his lips. “If you like, we could take a cab down to the library, or down to town hall, and we could do a bit of research. Pass the time.”

There's almost a bit of pride in Sherlock's chest when John brightens up, his face practically glowing with a purpose behind it. “That sounds like a brilliant idea.” He answers, and consequentially, he pushes Sherlock out of the bathroom and towards his own room. “Go get changed so that we can get started! The game is on!” The detective laughs as John succeeds in pushing Sherlock into his room, closing the door behind him.

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock is dressed in a dark button-up shirt and trousers, his blue scarf wrapped firmly around his neck and his long coat hung over his shoulders; he and John are in a cab, pulling up to the library where Sherlock convinces John that he can look up some information on eagles and bees to see if those will give any sort of clue within the newspaper clippings that Sherlock previously missed. With a smile, John marches over to the section of the library that should prove to be useful, and Sherlock beelines for a library computer, only feeling marginally guilty about his deception.

He slides into the computer seat and wiggles the mouse until the screen lights up - bright and cheerful. Sherlock opens up the Internet and taps his fingers against the wooden desk, pondering over where to start.

 _James Moriarty_ he types into Google, figuring he might as well start with a large survey – see if he can find a Facebook page or something equally mundane. The thing that is bothering Sherlock so much about this case, is that the various aspects of it are so plain and boring. The more bizarre a thing is, the less mysterious it proves to be. It's the commonplace, featureless crimes which are really puzzling – just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to identify. Which is partly why Sherlock got John to look up eagles and bees; they're the only unique aspect of this case that might prove to be useful in the long run.

Using John's Facebook login, Sherlock accesses James' Moriarty's Facebook page. His eyes quickly flicker over the data, storing them into a safe spot for his later use.

_James Moriarty_

_24 years of age_

_Currently employed at St. Bart's_

_Obtained a degree at the UCD School of Computer Science and Informatics_

_Currently in a relationship with Sebastian Moran_

_Family: Unknown_

Sherlock sighs heavily and backtracks out of Facebook – useless, waste of time that is. He lets out a deep breath and types in another search into Google, settling in for a couple hours of research.

Unfortunately, three hours later, he still doesn't have anything of use. To himself, he decides that he'll simply drop by James Moriarty's house at a later date – he will get a better read on the man first hand than over the Internet anyway. John unhappily trudges back to Sherlock, remarking that he couldn't find anything of significance either. Altogether, a bit of a waste of a trip – but at least it was something to pass the time.

Or at least, that's what John remarks with a smile as he pulls Sherlock into a cab back to Baker Street.

They have to go back to the flat – John forgot his tickets to the orchestra in his other coat, and has to go back and get them. The ride home is silent, but John’s fingers are interlaced with Sherlock's, and the detective can't find much of a reason to complain.

He stays in the cab while John runs inside and grabs the tickets, a smile upon his face when he comes back to the cab, sliding right in beside Sherlock, their thighs touching and warming themselves instantly. They've had a relatively warm winter, which is quite rare for London, but the added heat isn't anything that he's going to refuse. Not when gloves warm his fingers and the hair on the back of his neck stands up from the brisk wind that slides into the cab along with John.

Sherlock's a bit surprised when they arrive at their destination and they find quite a few other people waiting to get inside. Being the middle of the afternoon, he hadn't been expecting very many people to be attending. While the two of them wait in line, John talks about the surgery, and about various little stories that occurred during his time there – but Sherlock tunes out of his speech, zoning in on his own thoughts.

And by the squeeze of John's fingers, the detective knows that John knows exactly what he's doing.

Moriarty, Moriarty. Where are you? Sherlock's eyes flicker around the crowd. The Napoleon of Crime is taunting Sherlock with his presence – like a giant game of cat and mouse; one where Sherlock is the mouse. A position that he doesn't enjoy in the slightest.

What if Moriarty is in the crowd? Right here? Right now? Just looking upon Sherlock with a smirk and thinking, _'That idiot. I'm so close and yet he fails to see me. No one ever gets to me.'_ The thought makes Sherlock's stomach curl.

That man is responsible for Dominick's death – and nothing will stop Sherlock from avenging that fact.

Eventually, they make it inside, and John quickly ushers the detective to their seats – and Sherlock is rather pleased to find that they're near the back, but centred wonderfully in the middle of the audience. A spot around where the acoustic sweet spot of the arena is generally found.

There's still time to wait though, and Sherlock gets bored so very easily. He leans close to John, his lips moving to the blonde's ear, kissing at the skin just under his jawline before moving to lick at his earlobe. To his sharp disappointment, John pushes him off, and looks at him with wild eyes; eyes that flicker around to their neighbors to check that no one saw the move the detective tried to pull. “What? Right here? No!”

Sherlock pouts at him, fingers tracing along John’s thigh, trying to get the bloke to change his mind. “I was just going to make sure your viewing was pleasurable.” He purrs the last word in John's ear, adding in a little extra nip of his earlobe – and he knows by the shiver of John's body next to his that the move is well received, but still the doctor pushes him back. “No. This place is respectable.” The blonde rolls his shoulders, and Sherlock is delighted when he notices a blush over John's cheeks. “We've already done it in the morgue. Leave me with a little bit of dignity.”

With a chuckle, Sherlock submits to another of John's requests, and the blonde smiles at him in return. “How about you entertain yourself by dissecting the lives of the people around us?” His voice is dropped in a whisper, and Sherlock rolls his eyes at the idea. “Utterly boring. Nothing of interest there.”

Of course, there's nothing else interesting going on (especially since John refuses to snog Sherlock in the middle of the crowd), so Sherlock finally agrees to gesture to each of the people around them, pointing out the details of their lives to John.

There's a couple beside them, man and wife. The woman loves the orchestra, and her husband couldn't be more bored by it. You can tell by the looks of various excitement on their faces – just look at the way she keeps eagerly checking the stage and the way his eyes keep darting to his shoelaces. He's just there to appease his wife – who is thinking of getting a divorce from her boring husband. Look at her wedding ring in comparison with the rest of her jewelry. Her earrings and her necklace are both spotless – they would gleam if you shone a bright light over them. But her wedding ring is dirty. However it's a bit snug on her finger, so they've been married for a while. Perhaps ten or fifteen years. He's going bald, and isn't satisfying her in bed. They're both leaning away from each other, taking pains to look anywhere but at the other. He's hunched over, and his legs are pressed close together. Not confidant. She's sitting up straight and looking rather brightly at everything around her. Honestly, they should just get a divorce instead of dragging it on and drawing tension from everyone in the room.

The man sitting in front of them in a classical enthusiast. He plays the cello – you can tell by the certain marks upon his fingers; he also works a very dull desk job. You can tell by the marks upon his arms where he’s been leaning against a desk for long periods of time. Obviously bored if he’s leaning against his desk. He's very relaxed though – his legs are spread out and he's leaning back in his chair, fingers still upon the armrests. His eyes are closed – enjoying the silence. Not a bachelor, there's a wedding ring on his finger. Very in love, the ring is new and expensive. Married less than two years. There are white streaks in his hair though – stress from the twins his wife gave birth to. She let him escape to the orchestra in order to get a little time to himself before he blew up on someone out of stress.

Woman on their other side seems to be more anxious. Her fingers are sharp and manicured – freshly done early this morning. Notice her outfit – much too formal for an afternoon showing of an orchestra. No, she's here to meet someone, and they haven't shown up yet. She's a naturally nervous person though – note the way her cuticles are a bit chewed up, even though she recently got them done. That says she's chewed them down to the nubs on multiple occasions over time. Her eyes keep flickering to the clock on the wall, but there's a bit of a resigned look around her eyes – with every minute her date gets more and more late, she seems to get more and more certain that they're not coming. Possibility that she's very bad at discerning personalities. Or simply possesses a bad intuition. Notice the way she seems so resigned – this isn't the first time this type of event has happened to her before. Perhaps just with this person, perhaps over multiple partners. Could use the help of a professional.

“Sherlock!”

He shrugs his shoulders at John's sharp reprimand, but before he has the chance to say anything else, the room starts to darken, and the curtains draw – pulling the audience into a world of musical beauty.

Sherlock closes his eyes for the performance. Music is better enjoyed without a visual anyway; it is an auditory feature. Then Sherlock can allow himself to get swept up in the instruments, and the way that the violins blend with the flutes and the drums and all the other participants. He doesn't realize that he's drifted off until he's dreaming.

_He was lying in a field of grass, the wind blowing over his face and causing a smile to blossom over his lips. The sun was warm on his skin, but he knew that he wasn’t going to gain any sort of a tan from the exposure. So long as he has lived, sitting in the sun had only got him burned._

_There was a laugh to his side, and Sherlock looked over to see a head of red hair smiling back at him. His heart jumped in his chest, and he pulled the man close against his skin, feeling the warmth as his fingers intertwined in the hair that he loved so much. He let out a deep sigh and his lips pressed against the head of red hair. A deep breath escapes his lips, his whole body relaxing in the relief of holding his special person close again._

_The man he was holding pulled back, and Sherlock was staring into deep blue eyes, and his fingers were clutching fading blonde hair. John's lips smiled up at him, and they connected with Sherlock's in a soft kiss._

_Short, warm fingers twirled around his own, and brought them to his chest, pressing Sherlock's hand against his heart. The blonde was saying something, but the detective just couldn’t hear what it was. There was soft music around them, wrapping them up in a warm blanket, so it didn’t matter much. So long as the two of them were together, everything would be okay._

_His heart beat like a drum as they lied down on the ground – Sherlock felt like there was an army pounding in his chest, all vying for the blonde’s attention. Their heads were turned towards each other, just staring at each other; and the look in John’s eyes made the raven-haired man feel like the doctor could hear the rapid pace of his heart. It was a funny feeling, because most of the time Sherlock just wanted to get the blonde sideways, but this was rather nice. Just lying down and staring, nothing touching but the pair of their hands – their eyes the only caress that they need._

_What would you do if I told you that I loved you?_

_He wasn’t sure if the words were spoken or if they were thought, but either way, John smiled at him and shimmied a little bit closer, their bodies touching from shoulder down to their toes._

_What would you do if I said it tonight?_

_John leaned closer and their lips were touching in a soft kiss. When John leaned back, Sherlock couldn’t hear what he said, but he thought he saw John's lips form those three little words that Sherlock hadn't spoken in over two years._

_Suddenly the light and airy mood vanished, and the skies were filled with dark clouds. The air turned frigid, and John's eyes blinked in a rapid motion of Morse Code: S.O.S._

_Sherlock jumped to his feet as John did, his fingers reached to grab a hold of the blonde, trying to keep him close. His mouth opened and he screamed John’s name – but he can't even hear his own voice. Everything was silent; like he was watching a movie on mute. John's mouth opened, and his lips formed Sherlock's name as a dark gust of wind seemed to wrap around the blonde; snatched him away from the detective._

_“I don't like getting my hands dirty.”_

_Sherlock's eyes lifted towards the sky, the ominous, nameless face of Moriarty hovering above him, outsizing Sherlock a hundred to one. He screamed at the oppression, but the face just cackled, plucked John from the ground in his claws and tore the blonde away from Sherlock – leaving the man all alone._

_Again._

“Sherlock?”

He hears John's voice before he feels the blonde poking him in the stomach, attempting to rouse the detective from his slumber. “You know you snore when you sleep, right?” The voice beside him hisses, and Sherlock's eyes blink open, taking in a deep breath, his skin feeling a bit sticky from the dream. Upon John’s prodding, he sits up a bit more, and the dream rapidly fades from his mind like waves upon the beach shore. He clutches at the fragments, but once he's sitting up straight instead of reclined in his chair, the only thing he recalls is a vague fear of losing something very dear to him.

Suddenly, fingers are curling around his own, and John's worried face is next to his own. “You okay?” He whispers, scooting closer to the detective, fingers giving a good squeeze. “We can leave if you want. We don't have to stay. There's still another hour and a half left.”

_What would you do if I told you that I loved you?_

Sherlock blinks heavily, and takes in a deep breath. The music of the orchestra comes back to him, and he glances around before turning back to John. John. John.

He slips his hand out of John's and leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to John's cheek before whispering in his ear. “I'm sorry, I have to go walk this off. Stay and enjoy.” And then he's up and tearing out of the building – leaving the blonde behind, probably bewildered and hurt.

Love? Sherlock shakes his head as he tears out into the evening air. His phone is in his hands before he can really think about what he's doing. He can't love John. No, no, he can't allow it. He can't allow someone to get that close to him again. They'll only get hurt – Moriarty will only kill them. Sherlock has to find Moriarty and kill him before he can hurt anyone else that Sherlock cares about.

It seems like Sherlock just needs a little reminder of just who he is. Needs someone to remind him where is place is, what his purpose is. He needs a little fresh meat – he doesn't need John spooning up to him, all soft and understanding smiles. He needs to purge the notion of love from his mind.

His fingers plug in the number that he has memorized from two years ago, and the phone is held up to his ear – the phone only rings twice before a woman on the other end picks up the phone.

_“Hello darling. I thought I'd be hearing from you sooner or later.”_

“Hello Irene.”


	11. Temporary Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temporary Bliss with Lyrics: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5wBdym8Amd8

You okay? JW

John sighs as he glances down at his phone, his unanswered text message to Sherlock showing up on the screen. He'd sent the text hours ago, shortly after the orchestra had finished performing. The blonde had gone outside to find Sherlock, but there wasn’t a consulting detective anywhere in sight.

Of course, he had just assumed that the detective needed a little time to himself – as it wasn't very rare for the man to just up and leave in the middle of something important, and then not be seen for a few days at a time. However, that was before John started sleeping with him, and the blonde is worried that something bad might be bothering the man.

To try and put his mind off the issue, John had gone to the store to buy some groceries, hoping to surprise Sherlock with a home cooked meal in change of their usual takeout. He _had_ been planning on taking Sherlock out for dinner, but that didn't really seem like an option when he didn't know where the raven-haired bloke was. So he picked up some ingredients for a meal of chicken, as well as a container of milk and some nicotine patches for Sherlock.

He also bought another box of condoms at the store (as he was running low) and the man at the register that was scanning his items for him gave him a wink and a cheeky grin.

Leaving that embarrassment behind, John returned to the flat and spent a few hours cooking chicken – only to end up eating alone once eight o'clock rolled around and the flat was still strangely lacking a detective. The meal was brilliant, but John couldn't help his thoughts from straying back to Sherlock, thinking back to those scared blue eyes he had seen in the orchestra when he had waken the lanky figure from his cat-nap.

He wonders what Sherlock had been dreaming. It must have been awfully frightening in order to scare the bloke off – and John knew that the detective had been enjoying the music. The smile on his face while he was listening was enough clues for anyone.

John finds his eyes drifting over to Sherlock's wall of clues around when the clock strikes midnight. He's trying to stay awake for Sherlock, wanting to be awake to comfort the raven-haired man if he needs it. It's always been in his nature – to take care of others when they're in pain. His mum used to tell him that he would make the perfect doctor; and he hopes that somewhere up in heaven she is smiling down at him for his choice of a profession.

His lips allow another sip of tea to pass through to his tongue and down his throat, his eyes absently flickering over the map of clues as he drinks, using his finger as a makeshift bookmark in the novel that he picked up. Attention that he should be spending reading his book about the Stark family – but he just can't get his eyes to tear away from the bold word standing out amoung the clues. **Moriarty.**

Had Sherlock been dreaming of Moriarty when they had been at the orchestra? It wouldn't surprise John. Jesus, the bloke scared John already, and the most contact he'd had with the mysterious Napoleon of Crime was that weird letter he sent to Sherlock.

His eyes drift over to his phone again, and John scolds himself in his mind. No. Jim couldn't be the Moriarty that Sherlock is after. He couldn't. He just... he couldn't. Seb has always been a better judge of character than that – and Seb is one of the most honest people that John knows.

With a deep breath, John's fingers reach out and pick up his phone, his fingers dialing in the number of his ex-comrade. The tone dials, and John finds himself hoping that Seb doesn't pick up his phone. Please don't pick up. Please don't pick up. Please don't –

_"John? What do you want? Do you realize what time it is?"_

Pick up.

John lets out a deep breath, and forces himself to smile. “Hey Seb. Yes, I know what time it is, I just can't sleep. I wanted to chat.”

 _"Uh oh. That doesn't sound any good. Jim, go on watching I'll be right back."_ The last phrase is muffled, and John can pick up the sound of a television playing in the background. He waits patiently as footsteps pad away from the noise, and then a door clicks shut. _"Okay, what's up?"_

"It's Moriarty." John says in a rush, the name falling from his lips in a breathless gasp; as if he had been holding his breath before uttering the name. "I can't stop thinking about it. I know it couldn't possibly be Jim – but Sherlock isn't wrong about... well _anything_!"

There's a pause over the line, and John can imagine his friend pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed, trying to calm down before he says anything. Everyone in their unit in Afghanistan knew better than to make Seb mad – and John knew that he was treading on thin ice right now.

You don't earn reputation of being 'The Tiger' for no reason after all.

Once, in order to scare some of the new recruits, one of John's buddies, Martin, had taken one of the new guys into Seb's tent, and had forced the newbie to dunk a sleeping Seb's head into a pail of water. The end result was three cracked ribs on the part of the newbie, and a broken wrist in combination with a black eye for Martin.

 _"John, this is about Sherlock, isn't it?"_ Seb asks quietly, his voice low, and John knows that he's trying to be quiet so that his boyfriend in the next room over doesn't hear the conversation. _"This is about the night that Sherlock kidnapped my boyfriend."_

"Come on Seb, even you have to admit, Sherlock has a point. Jim is the only person with the name Moriarty in all of London. That's a bit suspicious.”

 _"It's an alias then!”_ Sebastian cries out, hissing his response. _“John, I know you have a lot of respect for this Sherlock character, but I've been with Jim for nearly two years. I think I would know if he were running some kind of criminal enterprise."_

John sighs heavily and takes a leaf out of Seb's book, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't know Seb..." He starts quietly, shaking his head over the phone. "Does Jim have any family?"

There's a pause over the line. _"No. He doesn't. His parents both died when he was a teenager. I think he has a sister, but I can’t be sure about that because he never talks about her. I can't figure out if she's dead or if he doesn't like talking about her, or if she just doesn’t exist. But other than that, no. No family at all. No uncles, aunts, or grandparents of any sort."_

He releases a deep breath. "I don't know Seb... I'm trying to help Sherlock with this whole thing, but I just don't understand." There's a pause over the line where the two of them sit in silence, and then a light bulb goes off in John's head. "Hey Seb, do you know anything about a gang that has tattoos of either eagles or bees?"

There's silence over the line, and for a moment John nearly thinks that their call got dropped – before there's a sound of another door closing, and the sound of a lock clicking shut. _"Why eagles or bees?"_

Seb's voice is very quiet, and it unnerves John a little – he hasn't heard that level of calm in his friend's voice since one of their comrades had been shot on the field... and it was inevitable that he was going to die. There was nothing John could have done to save him.

John swallows, his fingers unconsciously gripping his phone a little tighter. "That's the unusual thing about all the crimes that Sherlock has traced to Moriarty. All of the criminals involved in the cases have either had a tattoo of an eagle or a bee." John licks his lower lip, and reaches forward to pick up his teacup, sipping at the liquid. "Why? Does it mean something to you?"

Another pause over the line, and John can tell that his friend is conflicted over if he should say his next words or not. Patiently, he waits. Finally, after a few minutes of silence, Seb's quiet voice can be heard over the line. _"I haven't told you much of Jim's background, have I?"_

"No." John says quietly as his heart starts pounding in his chest. His free hand closes his book, placing it on the nearby coffee table so as to rid himself of distractions so he can listen to Sebastian.

 _"Right, well,"_ Seb starts, taking in a deep breath over the phone. " _Jim comes from a family that was rather well off. You know the type – mansion, paid servants – the blokes we used to mock back in the service."_

John chuckles quietly under his breath. "I remember."

Over the line, Sebastian chuckles as well. _"When his parents died, they left their estate to Jim; but he didn't get on with his family and sold the estate. Not the point of the story though."_

John pauses, wanting to ask the point of the story, but not willing to interrupt with that kind of a smart arse remark. _"The point of the story is that the Moriarty family had their own sort of crest. One that revolved around an eagle and a bee."_

There's silence for a long while. John sips at his tea, barely hearing anything more than Seb's quiet breathing over the line. After a few minutes, John breaks the silence. "You do realize that won't do anything to help clear Jim in this matter."

 _"I know!"_ Seb responds, his voice tight with anger, and John can imagine the bloke taking a leaf from John's book in order to curl and uncurl his fingers into fists. _"I'm not trying to get him into trouble! I'm hardly making this up for shits and giggles!"_

"I know, I know." John sighs heavily and shifts his position in his seat. "I don't want to see anything bad happen to Jim either. I know he means a lot to you, and you mean a lot to me."

 _"Thanks John. I really appreciate that.”_ John smiles at Seb's words, when suddenly there's a shout from the other side of the line.

 _"I'll be there in a moment!"_ Sebastian shouts back, chuckling before his voice comes back onto the line with John. _"Sorry, I’m watching a movie with Jim. He’s rather impatient."_ He pauses, and John takes the moment to sip at his tea. _"We'll have to continue this talk later. Preferably at a more reasonable hour, yes? Maybe I could try and help you solve this thing."_

"I'd really appreciate that Seb." John smiles happily – glad to know that he's got The Tiger on his side. "I'll let you get back to your movie. I'm sorry for bothering you. Say hi to Jim for me."

Sebastian chuckles over the line. _"I will. Say hi to that nutcase of yours for me."_ John laughs and shakes his head. "See you later."

The line clicks dead and John places his phone gently on the armrest beside him, a soft smile on his lips. His mind is put a little at rest after talking with his friend; and he knows that somehow the whole issue will get solved. It's impossible that he _and_ Sebastian could both be wrong about Jim's character.

John finishes his tea, and at a quarter after two he gets up to place his empty cup in the sink, telling himself that he'll wash it later. A yawn escapes his lips and he rubs his fingers against his eyes, trying to ward off sleep. But a glance at the clock tells him that he ought to just give up on waiting up for Sherlock and just go to bed for the night. He doesn't have work tomorrow, but that's not the point.

He walks back his chair, and his phone buzzes against the armrest. John quickly snatches up the device, hoping to see a text message from Sherlock – but he's let down with a sad sigh when he notices the response is from Harry. He opens up the message, eyes quickly scanning the message; John. It's Harry. Please. Text me back. We need to talk. HW

John sighs and sets his phone back down. He ought to text Harry back – but he's never got on with his sister, and doesn't really want to talk to her. However, he's been getting those same kinds of messages for over a week and a half; nearly two weeks now. It might be important... Tomorrow morning. He'll text her back tomorrow morning.

He's about the climb up the stairs to his room when he hears a door below slam open, and then shut a little bit more quietly. His heart jumps into his chest, and he hates that it does that; god, he shouldn't get so excited. It might not be Sherlock – it might be one of the married ones next door.

But then footsteps start climbing up the stairs to their flat, and John turns around, suddenly acutely aware in the fact that he's wearing cotton sweat pants, a white shirt, and bunny slippers that used to belong to an ex girlfriend (from ages ago; John doesn't even remember her name; but the slippers were way too comfortable to throw out). He manages to hold his ground, his eyes very curious as the door opens, and a very tired looking detective walks through the door, his scarf hanging crookedly upon his shoulders.

"Sherlock?" John asks quietly, taking a few steps closer to the detective – who continues to ignore John's voice as if he wasn't even there. Sherlock slowly strips off his coat and scarf, hanging them up on the coat hanger with a languidness that doesn't seem to be characteristic of the man. "You okay?"

Sherlock's eyes turn to face John's, blue eyes seemingly out of focus, and John’s lips dip into a quick frown, stepping forward close to the detective. "You’re not on anything are you?" He snaps his fingers in front of Sherlock's face – and the detective blinks – coming back to reality with that movement.

"No, I'm not on anything." Sherlock snaps back, sliding past John to walk into the living room to flop down on his chair, his legs thrown over the sides of the couch, and his arms slumping down to the floor. With a slight frown on his face, John steps closer to the detective, leaning down so that he's kneeling before the man. "Sherlock?" He remarks quietly, trying to bright Sherlock's attention back to him. "Are you okay? You know... I’m willing to listen to anything you need to talk about."

Sherlock's head lolls towards the blonde, those blue eyes carefully taking in each and every pore of John's face – and he shivers under the intense gaze. The raven-haired man's lips open in a yawn, and his arms stretch out into the air. "I just need to stop thinking, John." He murmurs quietly, fingers moving to press against his temples, rubbing, his eyes closed and his eyebrows creased in frustration. "Too much going on up here..."

John's lips press together into a hard line, his heart going out for the man. He can hardly imagine what Sherlock's head must be like – god knows being able to think like the way Sherlock does must do some damage on your noggin.

_“Sherlock's a very submissive guy, I'm sure he'd let you fuck him.”_

John is surprised to remember words that Dominick had spoken to him once – but once the words are floating around in his head, John seriously begins to consider them. Sherlock has been spending ages being the one in control, the dominant one – in both his personal life as well as his work life. The detective is so busy trying to sort everything out, there's no one to take over the reins for him and let the bloke simply relax.

But John can do that.

"Hang on one sec," John starts, pushing himself to his feet and taking the stairs two at a time to get to his room. He opens his door and spends a few minutes rustling around, collecting the few things that he'll need in order to provide Sherlock with a little bit of release. He tugs on a jumper with a large pocket, placing his items inside the pocket so that Sherlock isn't alerted as to what his plan is.

With a smile on his face, John heads back down the stairs, and walks into the living room to find a mildly curious face of a detective looking back at him. John gives the bloke a reassuring smile, walking back over to the couch that Sherlock is laying on. "Okay, you trust me, yes?" Sherlock nods his head slightly, curious eyes flickering over the blonde's face. "And you know our code word if I do anything you don't like?"

Sherlock's lips tweak into a smirk – and John smiles back, knowing that Sherlock invented the word cinnamon as their code word. John takes in a deep breath when the raven-haired man nods, and his fingers slip into his pocket, drawing out a blindfold. "Close your eyes." He tells Sherlock softly, leaning close and covering the detective's eyes with the blindfold, leaning his stomach close against Sherlock's face as he bends over to tie the blindfold at the back of those dark curls. With his lips pressed together as he surveys his handiwork, John fixes the edges of the blindfold to make sure that it's effectively covering Sherlock's face. "Can you see anything?"

"No, John, I can't." Sherlock says quietly, his lips forming a perfect little smile – full of amusement and peace; and in that smile John knows that he's doing something right. The detective just needs someone else to take control for a few hours; and John is more than willing to provide that kind of structure.

"Good." John says firmly, his fingers grabbing hold of Sherlock's biceps and pulling him to his feet. "Let's get you somewhere more comfortable before we start." He smirks, and he loves the way that Sherlock's tongue flicks out of his mouth to lick at his lower lip as he follows John – the blonde always carefully guiding the detective around the furniture in their living room before taking the bloke into his bedroom.

"Lie down." John orders curtly as he gets Sherlock to his bed, pushing lightly so that the back of Sherlock's knees hit the edge of the bed and he buckles and falls on the mattress. Quickly, Sherlock worms himself so that he's lying flat on his bed, on his back, his eyes covered and his chest heaving with excitement. John can feel himself starting to get aroused at the thought of what he's going to do to Sherlock – but he doesn't touch himself or do anything for himself. Right now; he's concentrated on Sherlock.

His fingers slide into his pocket and pull out four short pieces of rope. Placing them on the edge of the bed, John carefully moves Sherlock's limbs so that they're all pointed towards the bedposts; then John uses his rope to tie Sherlock's ankles to the bottom two bedposts, and his wrists to the top two. The knots he uses are tight – Sherlock won't be getting out anytime soon; but at the same time he leaves a bit of space so that Sherlock's skin has some room to breathe and the ropes don't cut his skin.

He notices Sherlock's lips twisting into a smile, beyond delighted at this clever little game that John has come up with. "Now," John starts, taking out the condom and the lube that he'd grabbed from upstairs, placing them on Sherlock's bedside table. "I want you to answer me a question honestly. If you don't..." John glances around, searching for something that he could use – oh! His eyes light up, and he crosses the room to grab Sherlock's riding crop from where it lay on the floor in the corner of the room. Experimentally, John slaps the end of the crop against his palm – and he winces. His hand stings, but the slap was light and for that he's grateful. But the tool will be just perfect for what he wants.

Apparently Sherlock had heard the slap against John's hand, because John notices Sherlock squirming against the duvet in anticipation, his breathing increased dramatically. "Ask away." His voice is deep and gravelly – and John knows that sexually aroused tone from some of their previous encounters.

John walks close to the bed, taking his sweater off so that he doesn't get too hot – the garment promptly discarded on the floor. Teasingly, John traces the end of the riding crop down Sherlock's side, brushing against the erection he's beginning to see bulge in Sherlock's trousers. "Have you eaten anything since lunch?"

He sees the smile on Sherlock’s lips falter slightly – and he knows that the detective is confused about the question – it’s not exactly a question usually heard during foreplay. The detective opens his mouth slightly, and then pauses, as if he's thinking about answering honestly or not. "No."

"Don't move." John responds quietly, and then he vacates the room, sliding into the kitchen to grab a few things out of the fridge that he had put there for future use. He returns to Sherlock's room in less than two minutes, and he smiles rather proudly at himself for having the forethought to buy these items. He places his findings on the edge of the bed, before he himself crawls onto the bed, straddling Sherlock's waist. Instantly he feels Sherlock's erection, and for a moment he simply rocks his hips against Sherlock's, eyes fluttering shut at the delicious friction.

A moan escapes Sherlock's lips and drives John back to his current task. He snaps the edge of the riding crop against Sherlock's hip, delighted at the sharp intake of breath from the detective at the motion. "Bad." John snaps, riding crop tracing down Sherlock's thigh. "No moaning, you filthy thing, or I'll stick something dirty in that mouth of yours."

That wicked mouth of Sherlock's twists into a grin, and John feels a shiver of excitement shooting down his back. God, he didn't know he could talk like that. In the past, all of his sexual experiences have been rather... vanilla. Being with Sherlock was the most exciting thing that's ever happened to his sex life.

And god does John love it.

"Yes John." Sherlock says submissively, and John resists the temptation to devour that mouth with his own. Instead, John leans over, making sure to brush his erection against Sherlock's, in order to pick out one of the freshly cut strawberries out of the bowl that John had brought from the kitchen. "Now, it's hardly substantial," John starts, picking up a can of whip cream and shaking it. "But it's a form of nutrition, and you brought this on yourself for bailing on a doctor." He pops open the cap of the whip cream and grabs the riding crop again, pressing the cold rod against Sherlock's neck. "Open your mouth."

Instantly, those Cupid lips open, and John sprays a bit of whipped cream into his mouth before he plops a strawberry into the mix. "Now eat." John orders, watching with a smirk as the detective chews softly on the strawberry, his Adam’s apple bobbing with his swallow.

"Good boy." John murmurs, pleased, trailing the riding crop down Sherlock's chest and rocking his hips against Sherlock's as a form of praise. "Now open your mouth again."

This goes on for a while – Sherlock slowly eating the strawberries with whipped cream and John rocking their hips together as a form of praise with every eaten berry. Once Sherlock is finished eating the whole bowl of strawberries, John places the bowl on Sherlock's bedside table, and smiles to himself. He sprays the remainder of whipped cream into his own mouth, enjoying the fluffy goodness before tossing the empty canister with the bowl.

"Better?" He asks Sherlock, who nods his head, tongue licking whipped cream off of his lower lip. "Yes John."

"Good." John answers, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the underside of Sherlock's jaw, fingers releasing the riding crop for a moment so that his fingers can work at undoing the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, slowing tearing off the fabric as his lips trace a path down the detective's chest.

"Oh dear." John remarks, a smile on his lips as he sits back for a moment, observing Sherlock's bare chest, as the fabric of his shirt lies open on the duvet. "It seems that I've tied you up before I got your clothes off. Oh well." He chuckles, spreading the shirt out so that Sherlock's chest is completely revealed to him, the arms of the shirt the only thing holding onto the detective. Then he shimmies down on that thin torso, and his fingers pluck at Sherlock's trousers, unbuttoning them and yanking them down his legs. Unfortunately, because his legs are spread out, the material only makes it down to Sherlock's knees – but that'll work fine.

"Don't you look gorgeous?" John whispers quietly, picking up the riding crop again and trailing it down Sherlock's body – from the carotid artery in his neck, all the way down his sides and down to the pants covering Sherlock's arousal. Sherlock's body quivers at the touch, his hips bucking slightly at the attention of the whip.

"No!" John orders sternly, cracking the crop against Sherlock's hip. Those lips turn up into a soft whimper, and John can see a red line from the riding crop forming on Sherlock's white hipbone. "No moving, darling'." John utters with a smirk, feeling rather wicked himself with the power he holds in his hands over Sherlock. He wouldn't ever dare go too far, but it was a strangely intoxicating feeling to have this much control over the lanky genius.

"Let me explain the rules of this game to you," John starts quietly, his fingers moving to brush against Sherlock's pants, fingers dipping under the waistline and brushing against pubic hair. "You are not to move. You can't buck your hips at me, and you can't touch me. You also can't speak. Right now, I’m letting you have your mouth, but if you keep moaning like you did before, then I might have to stick something in there. And trust me when I say it won't be another strawberry." Sherlock shivers as John's fingers hook around the detective's pants, pulling them down to his trousers, and letting his erection breathe, hard and leaking against Sherlock's stomach. "If you break the rules, you will be punished. Do you understand?"

"Yes John." Sherlock answers, a devilish smirk on his lips. Instantly, John smacks the crop against Sherlock's other hip, eliciting a quiet groan from the detective. "What did I say about speaking?" John asks, his voice a bit louder, a bit sharper; and he pretends not to notice the way Sherlock's cock leaks even more when John puts on his soldier voice.

Sherlock nods his head, and John smiles, tracing the riding crop down Sherlock's skin again. "Good boy. However, I think you need to make good use of that dirty mouth of yours."

John pulls himself off of the bed, and quickly strips himself down to nothing, his eyes gazing over the near naked god he has on the bed. His heart is pounding in his chest, but John refuses to let his insecurities shine through right now.

Without further ado, John climbs back on the bed and crawls toward Sherlock's head. He plants his knees on either side of Sherlock's head, the head of his cock brushing against those pink lips. "Suck." John orders, lowering himself slightly for the detective.

Obeying the command, Sherlock's head leans up, his lips closing around John's head as he sucks enthusiastically. John groans quietly, lowering himself more for Sherlock's convenience, one of his hands moving to twist into that gorgeous ebony hair while the other holds the riding crop against Sherlock's side. Those devilish lips slid higher up on John's cock, and that wicked tongue flicks against John's slit and slides around his cock in a tantalizing motion. John groans, fingers tightening in those curls, his knees shaking slightly.

John knows he's doomed when Sherlock brings him to a climax in a few short minutes, that tongue and mouth working together in perfect harmony in order to milk John for everything his worth. He cries out Sherlock's name, his head thrown back and his fingers twisted in Sherlock's hair to hold him against his cock, silently ordering Sherlock to swallow him down – a task that Sherlock takes with every care in the world, sucking John even after he finishes riding out his high, just to make sure that he gets everything John has to offer.

"Good, good." John coos softly as he pulls himself away from that mouth, pulling himself off the bed and onto the floor, standing on shaking legs. He leans down towards Sherlock's mouth, pressing their lips together, tasting the salt of his orgasm on Sherlock's lips. Lips that hungrily devour John's, kissing him eagerly, tongue slipping past John's lips to pull against his own tongue, trying to pull the blonde closer with just his mouth.

John chuckles quietly, pulling their lips apart and licking Sherlock's lower lip before he stands. "That was very good Sherlock." John praises, fingers tracing down Sherlock's torso. "I suppose I ought to give you a little bit of a reward now, mustn’t I?" He smirks as his fingers curl around the detective's long cock, eliciting a groan of appreciating from the man the cock belongs to.

Wickedly, John snaps the riding crop against Sherlock's thigh. "Bad! Bad Sherlock! I said _no moaning_!" His voice roars for the last part, and John notices Sherlock's cock twitch in his hand. "You leave me with no choice." John remarks as he looks around, before scooping up his pants from the floor. He releases Sherlock's cock in order to walk over to the head of the bed, taking his pants and stuffing them into Sherlock's mouth – making sure that it's not too far in. Once he's satisfied that Sherlock could spit out the pants to utter their safe word, John returns to Sherlock's cock.

His warm fingers ghost over Sherlock's head, causing the bloke to shiver. For a few minutes, John continues with feather-light touches, brushing against the head of the detective’s cock, against the shaft, against his balls; always just soft touches – nothing great enough to stimulate Sherlock, but enough to drive him crazy.

Sherlock is squirming and trying not to, remembering the rules of this engagement, and John decides he can get a little reward for that. The blonde leans over and picks up the lube, squirting a generous amount onto his fingers. He rubs his hands together for a moment, trying to warm up the lube, before he reaches over and strokes Sherlock's cock with a firm hand – causing the detective to buck his hips, a muffled moan leaving his lips.

"Bad Sherlock!" John utters again, picking up the ridding crap and slapping Sherlock's other thigh with it, his fingers squeezing Sherlock's cock at the same time. He smirks as the detective whimpers, his cock throbbing hard with desire and need. John's fingers slide up and down, squeezing at the base and tugging upward, causing a smooth motion with his hand.

And then Sherlock really starts squirming, his feet kicking at their bonds, and John releases his hand, taking a step back from the detective. The raven-haired man moans desperately, his whole body shaking from the denial to climax. John simply chuckles, a smirk on his lips – all exhaustion completely forgotten in the excitement.

"Oh, I'm sorry." He teases, fingers tracing along Sherlock's sides, leaving a wet trace in his wake. "Did you think I was going to let you cum?" Sherlock's head nods, no sound leaving his mouth, but his feet still kicking at their bonds in frustration. John feels his own cock start to stir again at the sight – god, it was gorgeous. Sherlock all spread out and tied up in his bed, blindfolded and desperate to climax.

"Well, I'm afraid I can't allow that quite yet." John answers, fingers tracing along Sherlock's arm, bending his head down to press kisses against Sherlock's neck, his tongue flicking out to lick up the lines in his neck. "Because you left me at the orchestra, and that made me worried." His teeth nibble on Sherlock's earlobe, and he traces the riding crop against the V of Sherlock's hips. "You missed dinner, and that made me sad." He bites the curve of Sherlock's ear, and he presses his hand firmly down on Sherlock's erection, causing a moan to leave from that muffled mouth. "And then you made me stay up to a stupid hour in order to wait for you – and that made me mad."

Of course, John wasn't really mad with Sherlock; but it was fun to pretend that he was punishing Sherlock – especially when the detective seemed to enjoy getting punished so much.

"So you're not cumming until I say that it's okay." John whispers in Sherlock's ear, and he notices goose pimples rising up on Sherlock's arms as a result of the words. With a smirk, he traces the riding crop against Sherlock's legs before he smacks it down on Sherlock's pelvis again, making sure he doesn't hit his cock. "And _what_ did I say about making noise?" He snarls at Sherlock, stalking back to Sherlock's cock and squeezing it with his fingers.

Three more times John nearly brings Sherlock or orgasm, and three more times John denies Sherlock the pleasure. He's done it with his fingers, with his mouth and by stimulating Sherlock’s prostate with his fingers. By now, it's past four in the morning, but neither of them cares. Sherlock's skin is shining with sweat, and his whole body is quaking with desire. There are red strips on Sherlock's hips, legs, back and arse (as John had flipped Sherlock over earlier for punishment upon his back; as well as for removing the remainder of his clothing). Sherlock seemed especially sensitive to the whips against his arse, and the skin there seemed redder than the rest of his skin, so John quickly flipped the detective back onto his back.

"I'm going to fuck you now." John tells Sherlock, opening up the condom he brought down with him and slipping it onto his ready cock. "If you're any good, _maybe_ I'll let you cum." Sherlock's whole body quivers with this notion, and for a moment John regrets that those brilliant eyes of Sherlock's are covered.

John climbs back onto the bed and positions himself between Sherlock's legs, using his fingers to spread Sherlock's legs apart as far as they'll go with the bindings. His arsehole drips a bit with the lube John had been using there earlier to stretch Sherlock out in preparation for this. He presses the head of his cock against Sherlock's puckered hole, brushing it against the hole but not actually entering, letting Sherlock quiver for his cock just a little longer.

Using his hand, John lubes his cock up again, and then pushes himself inside of Sherlock, moaning at how tight Sherlock feels. In the split second that he's entirely inside of Sherlock, John realizes that this is the first time Sherlock has bottomed since that one-night-stand six years ago.

But then Sherlock is moaning through the pants stuffed in his mouth, and John picks up the riding crop to snap it against Sherlock's side. The punishment no longer deters the detective, as he just moans again, hips bucking against John's in need – the delay of his orgasm pushing him for a desperate release.

John drops the riding crop – it's not going to help him much more. His fingers grab Sherlock's hips, fingers digging into his skin as he holds the detective steady. He slowly pulls out of Sherlock, until just his head is inside the bloke, and then he slams back inside, causing their skin to slap with a loud and sloppy noise, and eliciting a moan from the man he's fucking. With a smirk, John draws back and then slams into Sherlock again, proceeding to fuck the detective into the mattress.

They're both breathing heavily a few minutes later, sweat on their skin as John's hands dig into Sherlock's skin, holding him tight as John fucks him, pounding again and again into the detective. John's breathing escapes from his lips in short bursts and moans trickle out of Sherlock's mouth from around the pants stuck in there.

"You," John pants out with a sharp thrust into Sherlock, causing the bloke to howl as John hits his prostate. "Are," Another sharp thrust into Sherlock's prostate. " _Mine_." He growls the word, his thrusts turning shorter, more desperate and wild, Sherlock squeezing him so deliciously that heat is building in his lower stomach, and the edge of his second orgasm of the night is sneaking up on him.

Quickly, John takes Sherlock's cock with one of his hands, the other being used to hold Sherlock's hips steady. John's head quickly strokes up and down Sherlock. "Cum for me," John demands in a breathless command, his thumb brushing against Sherlock's head with every short and fast stroke against the long and thin cock. “Cum for me, you whore.”

Sherlock groans at the words, his head thrown back. His cock throbs in John's hand, and he feels heat in his hands before Sherlock is squirting onto him, wetting John's fingers. At the same time, Sherlock's arsehole squeezes around John, providing a wondrous pressure and warmth that bring John to his own climax, Sherlock's name falling from his lips in a wild moan, matching the groans sliding out of Sherlock's mouth.

After a few hazy moments, John releases Sherlock's cock and pulls out of the detective. Sherlock whimpers slightly at the movement, and John has to pinch himself to keep his eyes open as he stumbles over to the bathroom. He throws out the condom and quickly mops himself up with a cloth, washing the cloth again before taking it back into the bedroom.

John presses the cloth against Sherlock's arsehole, cleaning up the leftover lube and cum that dripped there. Sherlock quakes at the touch, and John strokes a reassuring hand against the detective's thigh. "Shhh..." He whispers quietly, fingers gently stroking as he cleans Sherlock up. "Good boy. Good boy." The blonde smiles, fingers gently moving Sherlock's cock to clean up his pelvis, cleaning up all the mess before he leans down and presses a soft kiss against Sherlock's pubic hair.

Returning to the bathroom, John grabs another wet cloth before heading back to the bedroom. One by one, he takes off the ropes that were holding Sherlock's feet and hands to the bedposts. With every release, John soothes the rope burns against Sherlock's skin with the wet cloth; and he smiles when every touch seems to make Sherlock relax even more into the duvet.

Finally, all the ropes are off, they're both cleaned up, and John has pressed a wet cloth against every single stinging area where the riding crop had fallen during their playing. He has Sherlock on his back after soothing his back and his arse, and the detective lies on the bed like a limp rag doll. John puts the cloth off to the side, and climbs on the bed with Sherlock. His fingers gently tug the pants from between Sherlock’s lips, discarding the fabric onto the floor for him to clean later. Carefully, his fingers pick up Sherlock's head, fingers gently stroking those ebony curls as he undoes the blindfold from the back, pulling the fabric off of Sherlock's eyes.

Gorgeous eyes are revealed to John; looking like sunlight streaking across the crystal clear surface of a lake. Those Cupid heart lips twist into a soft smile as Sherlock looks up at John. Not holding back, John leans down and presses their lips together in a soft kiss – nothing touching but their lips.

A moment later, and John draws his lips back from Sherlock's. Funny enough, Sherlock stays quiet as John pulls back and maneuvers the duvet so that it's no longer underneath the detective. John tugs the duvet over both of them, and John snuggles close to Sherlock under the blanket, spooning the bloke and twisting their legs together.

Softly, John presses a kiss to the back of Sherlock's shoulder _. I love you._ He doesn't say it out loud, but he thinks it, and he hopes that it's enough for now. When Sherlock's fingers find his under the blanket and curl their fingers together before squeezing, John smiles and allows himself to fall asleep holding the detective close to him.

 

John wakes to a cold bed, something buzzing in his ears. He groans quietly, taking in a sharp breath as he shifts around on the mattress, his eyes wearily blinking open. The clock on Sherlock's bedside table tells him it's a quarter after nine in the morning. Only about five hours of sleep – but the doctor hardly feels like going back to bed.

He shifts about under the duvet, stretching his arms out, that annoying buzzing sound going off again. His eyes blink heavily, trying to locate the sound. The noise seems to be coming from the pile of Sherlock's clothes that John had discarded onto the floor last night – well, earlier that morning.

His arm reaches out over the edge of the bed, fingers fumbling around the pile of clothes for the buzzing device, and withdrawing Sherlock's phone. There's an alarm going off on the phone – a morning alarm set to wake someone up. John groans and shuts off the alarm, the room feeling much stiller without the buzzing. But then John glances down at the phone again, and he notices that there's a message waiting.

Normally, John would never look at the messages on another person's phone. Only, the way Sherlock's phone is set up, is that he can see the beginning part of the message on the title screen; and he frowns when he reads that the message is from Irene Adler. That was the woman from when they visited Buckingham palace a few weeks ago. The woman that Sherlock had slept with ages ago.

His fingers slide the screen open, and the message from Irene Adler pops up. There's one message from two hours ago saying Last night was fun. Should do it again sometime. IA And then there is another message, from an hour ago, saying Thank you for making your payment so promptly. IA

John swallows hard, his fingers shaking with rage. Carefully, John wraps his fingers tighter around the phone, and he pushes himself out of Sherlock's bed, hurriedly picking up his clothes and pulling them onto his body. With a huff, John finishes dressing, the phone still in hand, and he marches out into the living room.

"Sherlock!" John shouts, striding out, a frown on his lips as he comes face to face with a detective lounging on the couch with three nicotine patches on his arm. Those bright eyes look up at John in confusion – as if the bloke has no idea what John is doing being so mad.

John pauses, a frown still the spotlight feature on his face. "Why do you have three nicotine patches on?"

Sherlock gestures over to the wall of clues surrounding Moriarty. "It's a three patch problem." He gives John a small smile. "Thank you for buying the patches yesterday, by the way."

John's eyes narrow at the detective, and he tosses the phone at Sherlock – who manages to nimbly catch the device. "Care to explain to me what the _hell_ that is?"

Sherlock's eyes shift down to the device, flickering over the messages from Irene that John left up on the screen. The blonde folds his arms over his chest, standing firm against the man he's been sleeping with for over a week.

"They're text messages." Sherlock answers simply, looking up at John with a raised eyebrow.

"Text messages from _Irene Adler_!" John frowns, hands moving to rest on his hips. "That's where you went last night, isn't it? You went and paid Irene Adler to sleep with you."

"Yes." Sherlock answers, and John hates that oblivious look on the detective's face while his own limbs are shaking with anger. "John, you've known me for how long now? You know that's what I do. I switch sexual partners fairly often."

"Out of fear of getting attached, yes, I remember." John bites angrily, folding his arms over his chest again to hide the shaking of his hands. "But you've been sleeping with me for the past week. And you slept with me last night… Just after you slept with Irene." John groans heavily with realization, rubbing his hands against his eyes. God – how could he have been so _stupid!_

"I don't understand..." Sherlock starts, shaking his head, moving to place the phone on the coffee table in front of him.

"No, of course you don't." John shakes his head in disgust, holding his arms around himself as if to protect himself – he feels so used; like some kind of cheap whore to just be used with as Sherlock pleased, and then tossed away when John wasn't worth the trouble. "I thought we had something Sherlock. I thought we were, you know," John shuffles his feet, still frowning at Sherlock. "In a relationship."

Sherlock simply stares at John, his face non-comprehending. The blonde huffs and shakes his head. "Forget it." He turns around and strides for the door, grabbing his coat off of the hook and shoving his arms into the holes.

"John?" Sherlock asks, finally rising from the couch and walking over to John, his tone quaking slightly with worry. "Where are you going?"

"Away." John states firmly, glaring at the detective. "You know, I could stand the body parts in the fridge, your obsession with getting revenge on Moriarty – hell, I can even stand the fact that you're desperately in love with a man who's been dead for over two years! But what I can't stand, is always waking up alone, and being treated like some kind of fancy sex toy!" John shouts the last two words, and then he's out the door, stomping down the stairs, his vision practically white with rage.

John steps out into the cold morning air, and the breeze nearly slaps some sense into him. Where is he going to go? He _lives_ with Sherlock. Sometime he'll have to come back and get his stuff if he's moving out. But he does need some time to calm down – he could go see Seb, but he doesn't want to walk in on the bloke having sex with Jim. He could go see Jamie – but he doesn't want to burden the poor girl with his problems; and she's probably at work by now. Which leaves...

John hails a cab and gives them an old, familiar address before leaning back into the seat and rubbing his hands together. He takes his phone out of his pocket, and pulls up Harry's number, sending her off a text. You want to talk? Fine. I'm coming over right now. JW

Five minutes later, his phone dings with a response. Great! I'll be ready when you get here. HW

John sighs and nods his head, licking his lower lip after he's read Harry's text message. He doesn't bother giving her a return text – she knows that he's coming. Sending a confirmation of her message would be a simply waste of a message. Looking out the window, John sighs heavily, watching London pass by as the cab speeds through the streets.

Honestly, what was he expecting? That John would allow Sherlock access to his body, and Sherlock would drop all of his other activities in order to be with John? He just... can't help it. The blonde is really, truly addicted to Sherlock – but it's come to the point where John realizes that he doesn't have to stand the pain that the detective inflicts upon him.

For god's sake – the detective was never even in the bed with John once the morning came around!

John takes in a deep breath, and rests his forehead against the cold window. Why was he bothering? Sherlock clearly didn't care for John the way that John cared for him. It's like Sherlock kept on playing around, while John was waiting for his heart.

It's fair enough for John to admit that by now he's in love with the detective. He's thought it to himself enough times; but he gets the feeling that saying it out loud to Sherlock wouldn't do him any good. Well – Sherlock has his number. If the bloke wants to apologize, then he'll call. If he doesn't, then John will know for sure that he doesn't care.

His mind made up, but his heart aching, John finds the cab pulling up to Harry's flat. He pays the fee to the cabbie and hops out of the cab, making his way through the familiar building and up to Harry's floor. Over seven years, and she's still living in the same place. Of course – it's more stable than John's living circumstances; which could be a very good thing for her. Not so much for him.

He lifts a hand and raps twice upon Harry's door, standing outside like an awkward teenager, his hands folded into his pockets. After a moment or two, the door opens, and the face of John’s older sister greets him. "John!" She smiles, opening the door wider and stepping forward to give him a hug. Awkwardly, he wraps his arms around her, gently patting her on the back.

She pulls back and tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, her blue eyes looking up at him. There share quite a lot of family resemblances; at family gatherings it was always easy to tell that they were brother and sister. Both have the same eye colour, hair colour, face shape, and the same nose. Although Harry was always more wiry like their mum, and John was built a bit stockier; like their dad.

"Well, come in, come in." Harry ushers John inside the flat, and John grimaces, nodding his head as he walks inside. He slips his shoes off, his eyes darting about the living room, checking up on his older sister in that one sweeping gaze. "It's cleaner than when I last visited."

Harry chuckles behind him, closing the door with the sharp click of a lock. "Things have changed quite a bit since you were last over." Yeah... six years ago, before John shipped off to Afghanistan. Change would be a good thing.

"Tea?" Harry asks, wringing her hands together as the two of them walk into the living room, shifting her weight between her feet and looking all sorts of nervous. John nods his head, carefully taking a seat on one of the chairs. "Tea would be lovely."

John has a few minutes to himself as Harry bustles about in the kitchen, making tea for the two of them. She doesn't have to ask how John takes his tea; they've been drinking the same type of tea since they were eight years old. John's eyes wander about the pictures hanging on the wall – pictures of Harry and Clara, and of their family before their parents passed away.

"You're still with Clara?" John asks, calling out into the kitchen, his eyes still wandering.

"Yes!"

He licks his lower lip, eyes falling on a picture of Harry and her dogs: Molly, Margret and Mary. "Hey, what happened to the dogs?"

"Molly got ran over by a car, Margert died of old age, and Mary had to be put down because she got too rough with Clara. A few years back she nearly tore at Clara's hand like it was a chew toy!"

"Oh...sorry." The blonde mumbles an apology, letting out a sigh.

John nods his head, crossing his ankles over the other way around. "And, um, how's the drinking coming?"

"Been sober for a year and a half!"

"Oh, good, good." John nods his head, his fingers curling together and wringing uncomfortably. He doesn't know what else to ask about... he kind of wants to rant about Sherlock, but he feels it would be terribly inappropriate with his sister he hasn't spoken to in over six years.

"There we go." Harry says quietly, walking back into the living room, her feet planted into the carpet as he sets the tea tray down on the coffee table. "Brought out some biscuits if you want some." She takes a seat opposite John, picking up one of the teacups and sipping, her eyes trained on her brother.

John raises an eyebrow, reaching forward to take the other teacup. Harry is being awfully nice... when they were kids, Harry was always terribly nice to him before she asked him for a favour; or before she broke really bad news to him. He reaches forward and takes a biscuit, nibbling on the bread as he stares at his sister. "So, what was it that you wanted to talk about?"

Harry smiles, and she likes her lower lip, wringing her hands together. Then she holds her hand out to John, not saying a word but a smile stretching wide across her face. John's eyes dart down – to find an engagement ring sitting upon her fourth finger.

"You got engaged?!" John cries, his mouth dropping open in surprise. He couldn't believe Clara and Harry finally decided to tie the knot; they've been dating off and on for the past ten years. To John, it seemed like the two girls could never make up their minds as to if they loved each other or hated each other.

"Yes." Harry giggles, a smile stretching wide across her face. "It happened a while ago." He glances guiltily down at her tea, taking a sip. "Clara proposed about eight months ago."

Wow. His sister.... his sister is going to get married? And... the whole thing happened while John was in the hospital for his injury.

"So, wait," John licks his lower lip, setting his tea down on the coffee table. "All this time, that you've been texting me and wanting to talk – you've wanted to tell me that you were engaged?"

"Well, sort of." Harry starts, taking a biscuit for herself and nibbling on it, her knees touching as she looks up at John. "As we got engaged a while ago, we've been setting things up for the wedding, and it's this weekend." John's mouth drops. If he hadn't decided to text Harry back... "And I want my brother to give me away."

John blinks a few times, just staring at Harry. He might have missed his own sister's wedding if he had kept refusing to answer her texts and her calls. And... Harry wants him to give her away. Both of their parents are dead, but still... she wants John? As far back as John can remember, the two of them have always been fighting; fighting which gradually dissolved into awkward tension when the two of them were in the room together.

"Please?" Harry speaks up, mistaking John's silence for a refusal. "I know it's last minute and Clara will throw a fit about it messing up her seating chart, but I really want you there." Her eyes are big and blue, looking up at him with a begging face that she used to use to get treats from their parents. "You can even bring someone if you want; I just want you there." She swallows and shuffles her bare feet against the carpet. "I... I feel bad, that my problems with alcohol have pushed you and I so far apart. We're the only family we have left, and I don't want to lose you."

John swallows hard, and then he leans forward, pressing a hand against Harry's knee. She looks up at him, and John gives her a smile. "Harry, I wouldn't miss your wedding for the world."

The smile that stretches across his sister's face is near blinding, and John laughs when she throws her arms around him and gives him a great bear hug, thanking him over and over again.

In the middle of their giddy embrace though, the whirring sound of the TARDIS emits from John's pocket, and he frowns, pulling away from his sister and wondering who would be calling him. Harry snorts and shakes her head at the sound. "You've still got that as your ringtone?"

John scoffs at her and shakes his head, fingers dipping into his pocket to pull out his phone. "You don't mess with Doctor Who Harry. It's timeless."

She laughs, and John's smile vanishes from his face when he sees the Caller ID of the number on his phone. Sherlock.

With a deep breath, John flips the phone open. "I hope you're calling to apologize."

 _"I'm sorry John. I... I didn't realize how much that would hurt you. It's just,"_ Over the line, Sherlock pauses, taking in a deep breath. Harry seems to have realized the importance of the call, and has sunken back into her chair to quietly sip at her tea. _"I'm not used to having someone... care about me. I was scared, and I thought I needed a change to get you out of my system. But then I came back home, and you did...."_

John flushes a dark red colour, and Harry raises an eyebrow at him. Over the line, Sherlock gives a breathy sigh – and John wonders if he's smiling.

_"I... I don't know what to say John. What you did was absolutely brilliant."_

The blonde sighs heavily, and runs his fingers through his hair. "Sherlock, I need you to decide something, right here, right now." He takes in a deep breath. "Because I really don't see the point in doing this every night. The point in me sleeping in your bed, if all you're going to do is mess with my head and leave me waking up alone. I can't keep touching you if it's just going to be some sort of temporary bliss." John swallows, lips pressed together. "I refuse to be another one night stand. So I need you to decide if you want to be with me or not."

 _"Yes."_ Sherlock replies nearly instantly. _"Yes, John, I want to be with you. I-I-I,"_ There's a pause, and a deep breath. _"I.... when you left, I realized just how much I've come to rely on you in just the past short weeks. You really care about me, and I haven't had anything like that in a long time. I want you... to stay. Please. I'll do anything. Just name it, and I'll do it. You're not just a sex toy John. I don't want you to feel like that's why I keep you around."_

It's John's turn to pause, taking in a deep breath. He picks up his cup of tea and sips at the liquid, thinking to himself. The apology slipping from Sherlock's lips was like honey, and John was thankful that the detective could see that what he did was wrong – and it thrilled John's heart to hear that the bloke wanted John to stay. That Sherlock wants John. Maybe... maybe someday, that want could be love.

John shakes his head. No, no; don't think about that right now. Get through one problem at a time.

But Sherlock said that he would do anything for John. He doesn't know what he'd make the detective do; things like getting the milk or buying his own nicotine patches just seem so mundane – oh. Wait a moment.

His eyes flicker over to Harry, who seems to be a bit surprised that John is looking at her with an expression similar to a cartoon character when a light bulb goes off over their head. Harry wants him at her wedding; and she said that he could bring a guest.

"I want you to come to my sister's wedding with me this weekend." John finally says, a smile stretching across his face as his sister beams up at him. Over the line, he hears Sherlock's baritone voice. _"Done."_


End file.
